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ESSAYS 


MISCELLANIES 


SELECTED   FROM 


THE  INDICATOR  AND   COMPANIOW, 


BY 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


NEW  YOKK: 

DERBY  &  JACKSON,  119  NASSAU  STREET. 

1857. 


'A  ' 


h. 


AUTHOR'S   INTRODtlCTION. 


The  Indicator,  a  series  of  papers  originally  published  in 
weekly  numbers,  having  been  long  out  of  print,  and  repeated 
calls  having  been  made  for  it  among  the  booksellers,  the 
author  has  here  made  a  selection,  comprising  the  greater 
portion  of  the  articles,  and  omitting  such  only  as  he  unwil- 
lingly put  forth  in  the  hurry  of  periodical  publication,  or  as 
seemed  otherwise  unsuited  for  present  publication,  either 
by  the  nature  of  their  disquisitions,  or  from  containing  com- 
mendatory criticisms  now  rendered  superfluous  by  the  re- 
putation of  the  works  criticised. 

The  author  has  little  further  to  say,  by  way  of  adver- 
tisement to  these  pages,  except  that  both  the  works  were 
written  with  the  same  view  of  inculcating  a  love  of  nature 
and  imagination,  and  of  furnishing  a  sample  of  the  enioy- 
ment  which  they  afford  ;  and  he  cannot  give  a  better  nroof 
of  that  enjoyment,  as  far  as  he  was  capable  of  it,  than  by 
slating,  that  both  were  written  during  times  of  great  trou- 
jle  with  him,  and  both  helped  him  to  see  much  of  that  vair 
play  between  his  own  anxieties  and  his  natural  cheerfulness, 
jf  which  an  indestructible  belief  in  the  good  and  the  beau- 
tiful has  rendered  him  perhaps  not  undeserving. 

London,  Dec.  6,  1833. 


CONTENTS. 


PART  I. 

PAOB 

Author's  Introduction    iii 

Chap.     I. — Difficulty  of  iinding  a  Name  for  a  Work  of  this  kind  1 

II. — A  Word  on  Translation  from  the  Poets 4 

III. — Autumnal  Commencement  of  Fires — Mantel-Pieces — 

Apartments  for  study  5 

IV. — Acontius's  Apple  9 

v.— Godiva   11 

VI. — Pleasant  Memories  connected  with  various  Parts  of 

the  Metropolis   15 

VII. — Advice  to  the  Melancholy 23 

VIII. — Charles  Brandon,  and  Mary  Queen  of  France  26 

IX.— On  the  Household  Gods  of  the  Ancients 29 

X.— Social  Genealogy 34 

XI. — Angling 38 

XII. — Ludicrous  Exaggerations  .43 

XIII.— Gilbert!   Gilbert! 48 

XIV. — Fatal  Mistake  of  Nervous  Disorders  for  Madness 50 

XV.— Mists  and  Fogs   55 

XVI.— The  Shoemaker  of  Veyros 60 

XVII.— More  News  of  Ulysses 65 

XVIIL— Far  Countries    70 

XIX. — A  Tale  for  a  Chimney  Corner    76 

XX. — Thieves,  Ancient  and  Modern  85 

XXL— A  few  Thoughts  on  Sleep    116 

XXIL— The  Fair  Revenge    122 

XXIIL— Spirit  of  the  Ancient  Mythology   128 

XXIV.— Getting  up  on  Cold  Mornings    134 

XXV.— The  Old  Gentleman 138 

XXVIL— Dolphins 143 

XXVIIL— Ronald  of  the  Perfect  Hand  145 

XXIX.— A  Chapter  on  Hats 156 

XXX.— Seamen  on  Shore....    164 

XXXI. — On  the  Realities  of  Imagination    171 

XXXIL— Deaths  of  Little  Children   182 

XXXIIL— Poetical  Anomalies  of  Shape 186 

•  XXXIV.— Spring  and  Daisies 189 

XXXV.— May-Day  197 

XXXVL— Shakspeare's  Birth-Day 207 

XXXVIL— La  Belle  Dame  sans  Mercy 211 

XXXVIII.— Of  Sticks    214 

XXXIX.—-Of  the  Sight  of  Shops 222 

XL. — A  nearer  View  of  some  of  the  Shops    230 

1*  V 


CONTENTS. 


PART  II. 

BA«B 

Chap.  XLI. — A  Word  or  Two  more  on  Sticks    1 

XLII. — The  Daughter  of  Hypocrates 4 

XLIIL— The  Italian  Girl   10 

XLIV.— A  "Now"  17 

XLV.— The  Honorable  Mr.  Robert  Boyle 22 

XLVI. — Superfine  Breeding  24 

XLVIL— Shaking  Hands 27 

XLVIII. — On  Receiving  a  Sprig  of  Laurel  from  Vaucluse 29 

XLIX.— Coaches 32 

L. — Remarks  upon  Andrea  de  Basso's  Ode  to  a  Dead  Body     52 

LI. — Thoughts  and  Guesses  on  Human  Nature   58 

LIL— The  Hamadryad   68 

LIII. — The  Nurture  of  Triptnlcmus  70 

LIV. — On  Commendatory  Verses  77 

LV.— A  Word  upon  Indexes 88 

LVL— An  Old  School-Book 90 

LVII.— Of  Dreams  93 

LVIII. — A  Human  Animal,  and  the  Other  Extreme 104 

LIX. — Return  of  Autumn     115 

LX.— The  Maid-Servant 117 

LXL— The  Old  Lady     121 

LXIL— Pulci    125 

LXIIL— My  Books   1B6 

LXIV.— Bees,  Butterflies,  &c 152 


PART  III.— THE  COMPANION. 

Chap.  I. — An  Earth  upon  Heaven  169 

XL— Bad  Weather     174 

III. — Fine  Days  in  January  and  February  179 

IV.— Walks  Home  by  Night  in  Bad  Weather— Watchmen...  182 

V. — Secret  of  some  Existing  Fashions  189 

VI.— Rain  Out  of  a  Clear  Sky     192 

VII.— The  Mountain  of  the  Two  Lovers 193 

VIII. — The  True  Story  of  Vertumnus  and  Pomona 196 

IX. — On  the  Graces  and  Anxieties  of  Pig-Driving 209 

X. — Pantomimes 2r2 

XL— Cruelty  to  Children 217 

XIL— Houses  on  Fire 221 

XIII. — A  Battle  of  Ants. — Desirableness   of  Drawing  a  Dis- 
tinction between  Powers  common  to  other  Animals, 

and  those  Peculiar  to  Man  223 

XIV.— A  Walk  from  Dulwich  to  Brockkam 234 


THE  IIDICATOR. 


There  is  a  bird  in  the  interior  of  Africa,  whose  habits  would  rather  seem 
lO  belong  to  the  interior  of  Fairy-land ;  but  they  have  been  well  authenti- 
cated. It  indicates  to  honey-hunters,  where  the  nests  of  wild  bees  are  to  be 
found.  It  calls  them  with  a  cheerful  cry,  which  they  answer ;  and  on  find- 
ing itself  recognized,  flies  and  hovers  over  a  hollow  tree  containing  the 
honey.  While  they  are  occupied  in  collecting  it,  the  bird  goes  to  a  little 
distance,  where  he  observes  all  that  passes ;  and  the  hunters,  when  they  havo 
helped  themselves,  take  care  to  leave  him  his  portion  of  the  food. — This 
IS  the  CucuLTTs  Indicator  of  Linnseus,  otherwise  called  the  Moroe,  Bee 
Cuckoo,  or  Honey  Bird. 

There  he  arriving,  round  about  doth  flie. 

And  takes  survey  with  busie,  curious  eye  : 

Now  this,  now  that,  he  tasteth  tenderly. — Spencek. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Difficulty  of  finding  a  Name  for  a  Work  of  this  Kind. 

Never  did  gossips,  when  assembled  to  determine  the  name  of  a 
new-born  child,  whose  family  was  full  of  conflicting  interests, 
experience  a  difficulty  half  so  great  as  that  which  an  author 
undergoes  in  settling  the  title  for  a  periodical  work.  In  the 
former  case,  there  is  generally  some  paramount  uncle,  or  prodi- 
gious third  cousin,  who  is  understood  to  have  the  chief  claims, 
and  to  the  golden  lustre  of  whose  face  the  clouds  of  hesitation 
and  jealousy  gradually  give  way.  But  these  children  of  the 
brain  have  no  godfather  at  hand :  and  yet  their  single  appella- 
tion is  bound  to  comprise  as  many  public  interests  as  all  the 
Christian  names  of  a  French  or  a  German  prince.  It  is  to  be 
modest :  it  is  to  be  expressive  :  it  is  to  be  new :  it  is  to  be  strik 
ing :  it  is  to  have  something  in  it  equally  intelligihli>  to  the  man 


i  THE,  INDICATOR.  [chap,  i 

of  plain  understanding,  and  surprising  for  tlie  man  of  imagina 
tion : — in  a  word,  it  is  to  be  impossible. 

How  far  we  have  succeeded  in  the  attainment  of  this  happy 
nonentity  we  leave  others  to  judge.  There  is  one  good  thing 
however  which  the  hunt  after  a  title  is  sure  to  realize  ; — a  great 
deal  of  despairing  mirth.  We  were  visiting  a  friend  the  other 
night,  who  can  do  anything  for  a  book  but  give  it  a  title  ;  and 
after  many  grave  and  ineffectual  attempts  to  furnish  one  for  the 
present,  the  company,  after  the  fashion  of  Rabelais,  and  with  a 
chair-shaking  merriment  which  he  himself  might  have  joined  in, 
fell  to  turning  a  hopeless  thing  into  a  jest.  It  was  like  that  ex- 
quisite picture  of  a  set  of  laughers  in  Shakspeare  : — 

One  rubbed  his  elbow,  thus ;  and  fleered,  and  swore, 

A  better  speech  was  never  spoke  before : 

Another,  with  his  finger  and  his  thumb. 

Cried  "  Via  !  we  will  do 't,  come  what  wiU  come  !" 

The  third  he  capered,  and  cried,  "  All  goes  well !" 

The  fourth  turned  on  the  toe,  and  down  he  fell 

With  that  they  all  did  tumble  on  the  ground. 

With  such  a  zealous  laughter,  so  profound. 

That  in  this  spleen  ridiculous,  appears. 

To  check  their  laughter,  passion's  solemn  tears. 

Love's  Labor  's  Lost. 

Some  of  the  names  had  a  meaning  in  their  absurdity,  such  as 
the  Adviser,  or  Helps  for  Composing ; — the  Cheap  Reflector,  or 
Every  Man  His  Own  Looking-Glass ; — the  Retailer,  or  Every 
Man  His  Own  Other  Man's  Wit ; — Nonsense,  to  be  continued. 
Others  were  laughable  by  the  mere  force  of  contrast,  as  the 
Crocodile,  or  Pleasing  Companion ; — Chaos,  or  the  Agreeable 
Miscellany  ; — the  Fugitive  Guide  ; — the  Foot  Soldier,  or  Flow- 
ers of  Wit ; — Bigotry,  or  the  Cheerful  Instructor  ; — the  Polite 
Repository  of  Abuse ; — Blood,  being  a  Collection  of  Light  Es- 
says. Others  were  sheer  ludicrousness  and  extravagance,  as  the 
Pleasing  Ancestor ;  the  Silent  Companion ;  the  Tart ;  the  Leg 
of  Beef,  by  a  Layman ;  the  Ingenious  Hatband ;  the  Boots  of 
Bliss;  the  Occasional  Dinner;  the  Tooth-ache;  Recollectiona 
of  a  Very  Unpleasant  Nature  ;  Thoughts  on  Taking  up  a  Pair  of 
Snuffers;  Thoughts  on  a  Barouche-box  ;  Thoughts  on  a  Hill  of 
Cdiisiderable  Eminence ;  Meditations  on  a  Pleasing  Idea  ;  Mate 


CHAf.  I.]  DIFFICULTY  OF  NAMING  A  WORK  OP   THIS  KIND     : 

rials  for  Drinking ;  the  Knocker,  No.  I, ; — the  Hippopotamus 
entered  at  Stationers'  Hall ;  the  Piano-forte  of  Paulus  iEmilius ; 
the  Seven  Sleepers  at  Cards ;  the  Arabian  Nights  on'  Horse- 
back:— with  an  infinite  number  of  other  mortal  murders  of 
common  sense,  which  rose  to  "  push  us  from  our  stools,"  and 
which  none  but  the  wise  or  good-natured  would  think  of  en- 
joying. 


THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  i 


CHAPTER  II. 

A  Word  on  Translation  from  the  Poets. 

Intelligent  men  of  no  scholarship,  on  reading  Horace,  Theo- 
critus, and  other  poets,  through  the  medium  of  translation,  have 
often  wondered  how  those  writers  obtained  their  glory.  And 
they  well  might.  The  translations  are  no  more  like  the  original 
than  a  walking-stick  is  like  a  flowering  bough.  It  is  the  same 
with  the  versions  of  Euripides,  of  ^schylus,  of  Sophocles,  of 
Petrarch,  of  Boileau,  &c.,  &c.,  and  in  many  respects  of  Homer. 
Perhaps  we  could  not  give  the  reader  a  more  brief,  yet  complete 
specimen  of  th«  way  in 'which  bad  translations  are  made,  than 
by  selecting  a  well-known  passage  from  Shakspeare,  and  turn- 
ing it  into  the  common-place  kind  of  poetry  that  flourished  so 
widely  among  us  till  of  late  years.  Take  the  passage,  for 
instance,  where  the  lovers  in  the  Merchant  of  Venice  seat  them- 
selves  on  a  bank  by  moonlight : — 

How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank ! 
Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sound  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears :  soft  stillness,  and  the  night. 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 

Now  a  foreign  translator  of  the"  ordinary  kind,  would  dilute 
and  take  all  taste  and  freshness  out  of  this  draught  of  poetry,  in 
a  style  somewhat  like  the  following : — 

With  what  a  charm,  the  moon,  serene  and  bright. 
Lends  on  the  bank  its  soft  reflected  light ! 
Sit  we,  I  pray ;  and  let  us  sweetly  hear 
The  strains  melodious  with  a  raptured  ear ; 
For  soft  retreats,  and  night's  impressive  hour. 
To  \  armony  impart  divinest  power. 


CHAP.  III.]  AUTUMNAL  COMMENCEMENT  OF  FIBES. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A'ltumnal  Commencement  of  Fires — Mantel-Pieces — Apartments  for  Study. 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  have  fires  again !  We  have  not  time  to 
regret  summer,  when  the  cold  fogs  begin  to  force  us  upon  the 
necessity  of  a  new  kind  of  warmth ; — a  warmth  not  so  fine 
as  sunshine,  but,  as  matters  go,  more  sociable.  The  English 
get  together  over  their  fires,  as  the  Italians  do  in  their  summer- 
shade.  We  do  not  enjoy  our  sunshine  as  we  ought ;  our  cli- 
mate seems  to  render  us  almost  unaware  that  the  weather  is  fine, 
when  it  really  becomes  so  :  but  for  the  same  reason  we  make  as 
much  of  our  winter,  as  the  anti-social  habits  that  have  grown 
upon  us  from  other  causes  will  allow.  And  for  a  similar  reason, 
the  southern  European  is  unprepared  for  a  cold  day.  The 
houses  in  many  parts  of  Italy  are  summer-houses,  unprepared  for 
winter ;  so  that  when  a  fit  of  cold  weather  comes,  the  dismayed 
inhabitant,  walking  and  shivering  about  with  a  little  brazier  in 
his  hands,  presents  an  awkward  image  of  insufficiency  and  per- 
plexity. A  few  of  our  fogs,  shutting  up  the  sight  of  everything 
out  of  doors,  and  making  the  trees  and  the  eaves  of  the  houses 
drip  like  rain,  would  admonish  him  to  get  warm  in  good  earnest. 
If  "  the  web  of  our  life  "  is  always  to  be  "  of  a  mingled  yarn," 
a  good  warm  hearth-rug  is  not  the  worst  part  of  the  manufacture. 
Here  we  are  then  again,  with  our  fire  before  us,  and  our  books 
on  each  side.  What  shall  we  do  ?  Shall  we  take  out  a  Life  of 
somebody,  or  a  Theocritus,  or  Petrarch,  or  Ariosto,  or  Mon- 
taigne, or  Marcus  Aurelius,  or  Moliere,  or  Shakspeare,  who 
includes  tnem  all  ?  Or  shall  we  read  an  engraving  from  Pous 
■sin  or  Rapnael  ?  Or  shall  we  sit  with  tilted  chairs,  planting  our 
wrists  upon  our  knees,  and  toasting  the  up-turned  palms  of  our 
hands,  while  we  discourse  of  manners  and  of  man's  heart  and 
hopes,  with  at  least  a  sincerity,  a  good  intention,  and  good-r  ature^ 


o  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  ni 

that  shall  warrant  what  we  say  with  the  sincere,  the  good-inten 
tioned,  and  the  good-natured  ? 

Ah — take  care.  You  see  what  that  old-looking  saucer  is, 
with  a  handle  to  it  ?  It  is  a  venerable  piece  of  earthenware, 
which  may  have  been  worth  to  an  Athenian,  about  two-pence ; 
but  to  an  author,  is  worth  a  great  deal  more  than  ever  he  could 
— deny  for  it.  And  yet  he  would  deny  it  too.  It  will  fetch  his 
imagination  more  than  ever  it  fetched  potter  or  penny-maker. 
Its  little  shallow  circle  overflows  for  him  with  the  milk  and 
honey  of  a  thousand  pleasant  associations.  This  is  one  of  the 
uses  of  having  mantel-pieces.  You  may  often  see  on  no  very 
rich  mantel- piece  a  representative  body  of  all  the  elements  phy- 
sical  and  intellectual — a  shell  for  the  sea,  a  stuffed  bird  or  some 
feathers  for  the  air,  a  curious  piece  of  mineral  for  the  earth,  a 
glass  of  water  with  some  flowers  in  it  for  the  visible  process  of 
creation, — a  cast  from  sculpture  for  the  mind  of  man ; — and 
underneath  all  is  the  bright  and  ever-springing  fire,  running  up 
through  them  heavenwards,  like  hope  through  materiality.  We 
like  to  have  a  little  curiosity  of  the  mantel-piece  kind  within  our 
reach  and  inspection.  For  the  same  reason  we  like  a  small 
study,  where  we  are  almost  in  contact  with  our  books.  We  like 
to  feel  them  about  us ; — to  be  in  the  arms  of  our  mistress  Philo- 
.sophy,  rather  than  see  her  at  a  distance.  To  have  a  huge 
apartment  for  a  study  is  like  lying  in  the  great  bed  at  Ware,  or 
being  snug  on  a  mile-stone  upon  Hounslow  Heath.  It  is  space 
and  physical  activity,  not  repose  and  concentration.  It  is  fit 
only  for  grandeur  and  ostentation, — for  those  who  have  secre- 
taries, and  are  to  be  approached  like  gods  in  a  temple.  The 
Archbishop  of  Toledo,  no  doubt,  wrote  his  homilies  in  a  room 
ninety  feet  long.  The  Marquis  Marialva  must  have  been 
approached  by  Gil  Bias  through  whole  ranks  of  glittering  au- 
thors,  standing  at  due  distance.  But  Ariosto,  whose  mind  could 
fly  out  of  its  nest  over  all  nature,  wrote  over  the  house  he  built. 
^^  parva,  sed  apta  7nihi" — small,  but  suited  to  me.  However,  it 
is  to  be  observed  that  he  could  not  afford  a  larger.  He  was  a 
Duodenarian  in  that  respect,  like  ourselves.  We  do  not  know 
how  our  ideas  of  a  study  might  expand  with  our  walls.  Mon- 
taigne,  who  was  Montaigne  "  of  that  ilk  "  and  lord  of  a  great  cba. 


CHAP.  III.]  AUTUMNAL  COMMENCEMENT  OF  FIRES.  7 

teau,  had  a  study  "  sixteen  paces  in  diameter,  with  three  noble  and 
free  prospects."  He  congratulates  himself,  at  the  same  time,  on 
its  circular  figure,  evidently  from  a  feeling  allied  to  the  one  in 
favor  :f  smallness.  "  The  figure  of  my  study,"  says  he,  "  is 
rounoi;  and  has  no  more  flat  (bare)  wall,  than  what  is  taken  u*^ 
by  my  table  and  my  chairs ;  so  that  the  remaining  parts  of  the 
circle  present  me  with  a  view  of  all  my  books  at  once,  set  upon 
five  degrees  of  shelves  round  about  me."  {Cotton'' s  Montaigne, 
b.  3,  ch.  3.) 

A  great  prospect  we  hold  to  be  a  very  disputable  advantage, 
upon  the  same  reasoning  as  before ;  but  we  like  to  have  some 
green  boughs  about  our  windows,  and  to  fancy  ourselves  as 
much  as  possible  in  the  country,  when  we  are  not  there.  Milton 
expressed  a  wish  with  regard  to  his  study,  extremely  suitable  to 
our  present  purpose.  He  woull  have  the  lamp  in  it  seen,  thus 
letting  others  into  a  share  of  his  enjoyments,  by  the  imagination 
of  them. 

And  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 
Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower, 
Where  I  may  oft  outwatch  the  Bear 
With  thrice-great  Hermes  ;  or  unsphere 
The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 
What  world  or  what  vast  regions  hold 
The  immortal  mind,  that  hath  forsook 
Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook. 

There  is  a  fine  passionate  burst  of  enthusiasm  on  the  subject 
of  a  study,  in  Fletcher's  play  of  the  Elder  Brother,  Act  i., 
Scene  2. 

Sordid  and  dunghill  minds,  composed  of  earth, 

In  that  gross  element  fix  all  their  happiness : 

But  purer  spirits,  purged  and  refined, 

Shake  oflf  that  clog  of  human  frailty.     Give  me 

Leave  to  enjoy  myself.     That  place,  that  does 

Contain  my  books,  the  best  companions,  is 

To  me  a  glorious  court,  where  hourly  I 

Converse  with  the  old  sages  and  philosophers ; 

And  sometimes  for  variety  I  confer 

With  kings  and  empera  3,  and  weigh  their  counsels ; 


THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  hi. 

Calling  their  vjctories,  if  unjustly  got, 

Unto  a  strict  account ;  and  in  my  fancy. 

Deface  their  ill-placed  statues.     Can  I  then 

P'^.-t  with  such  constant  pleasures,  to  embrace 

Uncertain  vanities  ?    No,  be  it  your  care 

To  augment  a  heap  of  wealth  :  it  shall  be  mine 

fc  increase  in  knowledge      Lights  there,  for  my  stndy. 


OHAP.  !>.]  ACONTIUS'S  APPLE 


CHAPTER   IV. 

Acontius's  Apple. 

AcoNTius  was  a  youth  of  the  island  of  Cea  (now  Zia),  who,  at 
the  sacrifices  in  honor  of  Diana,  fell  in  love  with  the  beautiful 
virgin,  Cydippe.  Unfortunately  she  was  so  much  above  him  in 
rank,  that  he  had  no  hope  of  obtaining  her  hand  in  the  usual 
way  ;  but  the  wit  of  a  lover  helped  him  to  an  expedient.  There 
was  a  law  in  Cea,  that  any  oath,  pronounced  in  the  temple  of 
Diana,  was  irrevocably  binding.  Acontius  got  an  apple,  and 
writing  some  words  upon  it,  pitched  it  into  Cydippe's  bosom. 
The  words  were  these  : 

MA  THN  APTEMIN  AK0NTIS2  TAMOYMAI. 

Bv  Dian.  I  will  marry  Acontius. 

Or,  as  a  poet  has  written  them : 

Juro  tibi  sanctae  per  mystica  sacra  Dianse, 

Me  tibi  venturam  comitem,  sponsamque  futuram. 

I  swear  by  holy  Dian,  I  will  be 

Thy  bride  betrothed,  and  bear  thee  company. 

CvdioDe  read,  and  married  herself.  It  is  said  that  she  was 
repeatedly  on  the  eve  of  being  married  to  another  person  ;  but 
her  imagination,  in  the  shape  of  the  Goddess,  as  often  threw  her 
into  a  fever  ;  and  the  lover,  whose  ardor  and  ingenuity  had  made 
an  impression  upon  her,  was  made  happy.  Aristsenetus,  in  his 
Epistles,  calls  the  apple  kvScoviov  iirTkov,  a  Cretan  apple,  which  is 
supposed  to  mean  a  quince ;  or  as  others  think,  an  orange,  or  a 
citron.  But  the  apple  was,  is,  and  must  be,  a  true,  unsophisti- 
cated apple.  Nothing  else  would  have  suited.  "  The  apples, 
methought."  says  Sir  Philip  Sydney  of  his  heroine  in  the  Arcadia, 
''  fell  down  from  the  trees  to  do  homage  to  the  apples  of  her 
:jreast."  The  idea  seems  to  have  originated  with  Theocritus 
(Idyl.  27,  V.  50,  edit.  Valckenaer),   from  whom  it  wa  j  copied 


H»  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap  tv 

by  the  Italian  writers.  It  makes  a  lovely  figure  in  one  of  the 
most  famous  passages  of  Ariosto,  where  he  describes  the  beauty 
of  Alcina  (^Orlando  Furioso,  canto  7,  st.  14) — 

Bianca  neve  e  il  bel  coUo,  e  '1  petto  latte ; 

II  collo  e  tondo,  il  petto  colmo  e  largo : 

Due  pome  acerbe,  e  pur  d'avorio  fatte, 

Vengono  e  van  come  onda  al  primo  margo,  • 

Quando  piacevole  aura  il  mar  combatte. 

Her  bosom  is  like  milk,  her  neck  like  snow ; 
A  rounded  neck ;  a  bosom,  where  you  see 
Two  crisp  young  ivory  apples  come  and  go. 
Like  waves  that  on  the  shore  beat  tenderly, 
When  a  sweet  air  is  ruffling  to  and  fro. 

A.nd  after  him,  Tasso,  in  his  fine  ode  on  the  Golden  Age  :— 

Allor  tra  fiori  e  linfe 

Traean  dolci  carole 

Gli  Amoretti  senz'  archi  e  senza  faci : 

Sedean  pastori  e  ninfe 

Meschiando  a  le  parole 

Vezzi  e  susurri,  ed  ai  susurri  i  baci 

Strettamente  tenaci. 

La  verginella  ignude 

Scopria  sv.e  fresche  rose 

Ch'  or  tien  nel  velo  ascose, 

E  le  pome  del  seno,  acerbe  e  crude ; 

E  spesso  o  in  fiume  o  in  lago 

Scherzar  si  vide  con  1'  amata  il  vago. 

Then  among  streams  and  flowers,  ' 

The  little  Winged  Powers 

Went  singing  carols,  without  torch  or  bow ; 

The  nymphs  and  shepherds  sat 

Mingling  with  innocent  chat 

Sports  and  low  whispers,  and  with  whispers  low 

Kisses  that  would  not  go. 

The  maiden,  budding  o'er, 

Kept  not  her  bloom  uneyed, 

Which  now  a  veil  must  hide, 

Nor  the  crisp  apples  which  her  bosom  bore  : 

And  oftentimes  in  river  or  in  lake. 

The  lover  and  his  love  their  merry  bath  would  take. 

Honi  soit  qui  mal  y  pensa. 


CH4.P.  v]  GODIVA,  11 


CHAPTER  V. 

Godiva. 

This  is  the  lady  who,  under  the  title  of  Countess  of  Coventry, 
used  to  make  such  a  figure  in  our  childhood  upon  some  old 
pocket-pieces  of  that  city.  We  hope  she  is  in  request  there  still ; 
otherwise  the  inhabitants  deserve  to  be  sent  from  Coventry.  That 
city  was  famous  in  saintly  legends  for  the  visit  of  the  eleven 
thousand  virgins — an  "  incredible  number,"  quoth  Selden.  But 
the  eleven  thousand  virgins  have  vanished  with  their  credibility, 
and  a  noble-hearted  woman  of  flesh  and  blood  is  Coventry's  true 
immortality. 

The  story  of  Godiva  is  not  a  fiction,  as  many  suppose  it.  At 
least  it  is  to  be  found  in  Matthew  of  Westminster,  and  is  not  of  a 
nature  to  have  been  a  mere  invention.  Her  name,  and  that  of 
her  husband,  Leofric,  are  mentioned  in  an  old  chapter  recorded 
by  another  early  historian.  That  the  story  is  omitted  by  Hume 
and  others,  argues  little  against  it ;  for  the  latter  are  accustomed 
to  confound  the  most  interesting  anecdotes  of  times  and  mannersf 
with  something  below  the  dignity  of  history  (a  very  absurd  mis- 
take) ;  and  Hume,  of  whose  philosophy  better  things  might  have 
been  expected,  is  notoriously  less  philosophical  in  his  history  than 
in  any  other  of  his  works.  A  certain  coldness  of  temperament, 
not  unmixed  with  aristocratical  pride,  or  at  least  with  a  great 
aversion  from  everything  like  vulgar  credulity,  rendered  his 
scepticism  so  extreme  that  it  became  a  sort  of  superstition  in 
turn,  and  blinded  him  to  the  claims  of  every  species  of  enthusi- 
asm, civil  as  well  as  religious.  Milton,  with  his  poetical  eye- 
sight, saw  better,  when  he  meditated  the  history  of  his  native 
country.  We  do  not  remember  whether  he  relates  the  present 
story,  but  we  remember  well,  that  at  .he  beginning  of  his  frag, 
ment  on  that  subject,  he  says  he  shall  relate  doubtful  stories  as 


2  THE  INDICATOR  [chap,  v 

well  as  authentic  ones,  for  the  benefit  of  those,  if  no  others,  who 
will  know  how  to  make  use  of  them,  namely,  the  poets.*  We 
have  faith,  however,  in  the  story  ourselves.  It  has  innate  evi- 
dence enough  for  us,  to  give  full  weight  to  that  of  the  old  annalist. 
Imagination  can  invent  a  good  deal ;  affection  more  ;  but  affec. 
tion  can  sometimes  do  things,  such  as  the  tenderest  imagination 
is  not  in  the  habit  of  inventing ;  and  this  piece  of  noble-hearted- 
ness  we  believe  to  have  been  one  of  them. 

Leofric,  Earl  of  Leicester,  was  the  lord  of  a  large  feudal 
territory  in  the  middle  of  England,  of  which  Coventry  formed  a 
part.  He  lived  ki  the  time  of  Edward  the  Confessor ;  and  was 
so  eminently  a  feudal  lord,  that  the  hereditary  greatness  of  his 
dominion  appears  to  have  been  singular,  even  at  that  time,  and 
to  have  lasted  with  an  uninterrupted  succession  from  Ethelbald 
to  the  Conquest — a  period  of  more  than  three  hundred  years. 
He  was  a  great  and  useful  opponent  of  the  famous  Earl  Godwin. 

Whether  it  was  owing  to  Leofric  or  not,  does  not  appear,  but 
Coventry  was  subject  to  a  very  oppressive  tollage,  by  which  it 
would  seem  that  the  feudal  despot  enjoyed  the  greater  part  of 
the  profit  of  all  marketable  commodities.  The  progress  of 
knowledge  has  shown  us  how  abominable,  and  even  how  unhappy 
for  all  parties,  is  an  injustice  of  this  description ;  yet  it  gives  one  an 
extraordinary  idea  of  the  mind  in  those  times,  to  see  it  capable  of 
piercing  through  the  clouds  of  custom,  of  ignorance,  and  even  of 
self-interest,  and  petitioning,  the  petty  tyrant  to  forego  such  a 
privilege.  This  mind  was  Godiva's.  The  other  sex,  always 
more  slow  to  admit  reason  through  the  medium  of  feeling,  were 
then  occupied  to  the  full  in  their  warlike  habits.  It  was  reserved 
for  a  woman  to  anticipate  ages  of  liberal  opinion,  and  to  surpass 
them  in  the  daring  virtue  of  setting  a  principle  above  a  custom. 

Godiva  entreated  her  lord  to  give  up  his  fancied  right ;  but  in 
vain.  At  last,  wishing  to  put  an  end  to  her  importunities,  he  told 
her,  either  in  a  spirit  of  bitter  jesting,  or  with  a  playful  raillery 

*  When  Dr.  Johnson,  among  his  other  impatient  accusations  of  our  great 
republican,  charged  him  with  telling  unwarrantable  stories  in  his  history,  he 
must  have  overlooked  this  announcement ;  and  yet,  if  we  recollect,  it  is  but 
in  the  second  page  of  the  fragment.  So  hasty,  and  blind,  and  liable  to  he 
put  to  shame,  is  prejudice. 


CHAP   v.]  CxODIVA.  13 

• 

that  could  not  be  bitter  with  so  sweet  an  earnestness,  that  he 
would  give  up  his  tax,  provided  she  rode  through  the  city  of 
Coventry,  naked.  She  took  him  at  his  word.  One  may  imagine 
the  astonishment  of  a  fierce,  unlettered  chieftain,  not  untinged 
with  chivalry,  at  hearing  a  woman,  and  that  too  of  the  greatest 
delicacy  and  rank,  maintaining  seriously  her  intention  of  acting 
in  a  manner  contrary  to  all  that  was  supposed  fitting  for  her  sex, 
and  at  the  same  time  forcing  upon  him  a  sense  of  the  very 
beauty  of  her  conduct  by  its  principled  excess.  It  is  probable, 
that  as  he  could  not  prevail  upon  her  to  give  up  her  design,  he 
had  sworn  some  religious  oath  when  he  made  his  promise  ;  but 
be  this  as  it  may,  he  took  every  possible  precaution  to  secure  her 
modesty  from  hurt.  The  people  of  Coventry  were  ordered  to 
keep  within  doors,  to  close  up  all  their  windows  and  outlets,  and 
not  to  give  a  glance  into  the  streets  upon  pain  of  death.  The 
day  came  ;  and  Coventry,  it  may  be  imagined,  was  silent  aa 
death.  The  lady  went  out  at  the  palace  door,  was  set  on  horse- 
back, and  at  the  same  time  divested  of  her  wrapping  garment, 
as  if  she  had  been  going  into  a  bath  ;  then  taking  the  fillet  from 
her  head,  she  let  down  her  long  and  lovely  tresses,  which  poured 
around  her  body  like  a  veil ;  and  so,  with  only  her  white  legs 
remaining  conspicuous,  took  her  gentle  way  through  the  streets."* 
What  scene  can  be  more  touching  to  the  imagination — beau- 
ty, modesty,  feminine  softness,  a  daring  sympathy  ;  an  extrava- 
gance, producing  by  the  nobleness  of  its  object  and  the  strange 
gentleness  of  its  means,  the  grave  and  profound  effect  of  the 
most  reverend  custom.  We  may  suppose  the  scene  taking 
place  in  the  warm  noon  ;  the  doors  all  shut,  the  windows  clos- 
ed ;  the  Earl  and  his  court  serious  and  wondering  ;  the  other 
inhabitants,  many  of  them  gushing  with'  grateful  tears,  and  all 
reverently  listening  to  hear  the  footsteps  of  the  horse ;  and 
lastly,  the  lady  herself,  with  a  downcast  but  not  a  shamefaced 

•  "  Nuda,"  says  Matthew  of  Westminster,  "  equum  ascendens,  crinea 
capitis  et  tricas  dissolvens,  corpus  suum  totum,  praeter  crura  candidissima, 
inde  velavit."  See  Selden's  Notes  to  the  Polyolbion  of  Drayton  :  Song  13. 
It  is  Selden  from  whom  we  learn,  that  Leofric  was  Earl  of  Leicester,  and 
the, other  particulars  cf  him  mentioned  above.  The  Earl  was  buried  at 
Coventry ;  his  Countess  most  probably  in  the  same  tomb. 


14  THE  INDICATOR  [chap.  v. 

eye,  looking  towards  the  earth  through  her  flowing  locks,  and 
riding  through  the  dumb  and  deserted  streets,  like  an  angelic 
spirit. 

It  was  an  honorable  superstition  in  that  part  of  the  country, 
that  a  man  who  ventured  to  look  at  the  fair  saviour  of  his  native 
town,  was  said  to  have  been  struck  blind.  But  the  vulgar  use 
to  which  this  superstition  has  been  turned  by  some  writers  of  late 
times,  is  not  so  honorable.  The  whole  story  is  as  unvulgar  and 
as  sweetly  serious  as  can  be  conceived. 

Drayton  has  not  made  so  much  of  this  subject  as  might  have 
been  expected ;   yet  what  he  says  is  said  well  and  earnestly  : 

Coventry  at  length 


From  her  small  mean  regard,  recovered  state  and  strength ; 
By  Leofric  her  lord,  yet  in  base  bondage  held, 
The  people  from  her  marts  by  tollage  were  expelled : 
Whose  duchess  which  desired  this  tribute  to  release. 
Their  freedom  often  begged.     The  duke,  to  make  her  cease. 
Told  her,  that  if  she  would  his  loss  so  far  enforce. 
His  will  was,  she  should  ride  stark  naked  upon  a  horse 
By  daylight  through  the  street :  which  certainly  he  thought 
In  her  heroic  breast  so  deeply  would  have  wrought, 
That  in  her  former  suit  she  would  have  left  to  deal. 
But  that  most  princely  dame,  as  one  devoured  with  xeal. 
Went  on,  and  by  that  mean  the  city  clearly  freed. 


CHAP.  VI.]  MEMORIES  OF  THE  METROPOLIS.  If) 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Pleasant  Memories  connected  with  various  parts  of  the  Metropolis. 

One  of  the  best  secrets  of  enjoyment  is  the  art  of  cultivating 
pleasant  associations.  It  is  an  art  that  of  necessity  increases 
with  the  stock  of  our  knowledge ;  and  though  in  acquiring  our 
knowledge  we  must  encounter  disagreeable  associations  also, 
yet  if  we  secure  a  reasonable  quantity  of  health  by  the  way, 
these  will  be  far  less  in  number  than  the  agreeable  ones :  for 
unless  the  circumstances  which  gave  rise  to  the  associations 
press  upon  us,  it  is  only  for  want  of  health  that  the  power  of 
throwing  off  these  burdensome  images  becomes  suspended. 

And  the  beauty  of  this  art  is,  that  it  does  not  insist  upon 
pleasant  materials  to  work  on.  Nor  indeed  does  health. 
Health  will  give  us  a  vague  sense  of  delight  in  the  midst  of 
objects  that  would  teaze  and  oppress  us  during  sickness.  But 
healthy  association  peoples  this  vague  sense  with  agreeable 
images.  It  will  comfort  us,  even  when  a  painful  sympathy 
with  the  distresses  of  others  becomes  a  part  of  the  very  health 
of  our  minds.  For  instance,  we  can  never  go  through  St. 
Giles's,  but  the  sense  of  the  extravagant  inequalities  in  human 
condition  presses  more  forcibly  upon  us ;  and  yet  some  pleasant 
images  are  at  hand,  even  there,  to  refresh  it.  They  do  not  dis- 
place the  others  so  as  to  injure  the  sense  of  public  duty  which 
they  excite ;  they  only  serve  to  keep  our  spirits  fresh  for  their 
task,  and  hinder  them  from  running  into  desperation  or  hope- 
lessness. In  St.  Giles's  church  lie  Chapman,  the  earliest  and 
best  translator  of  Homer ;  and  Andrew  Marvell,  the  wit  and 
patriot,  whose  poverty  Charles  the  Second  could  not  bribe.  We 
are  sure  to  think  of  these  two  men,  and  of  all  the  good  and 
pleasure  they  have  done  to  the  world,  as  of  the  less  happy 
objects  about  us.  ,  The  steeple  of  the  church  itself,  too,  is  a 
handsome  one ;  and  there  is  a  flock  of  pigeons  in  that  neighbor 


1.6  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  vi. 

hood,  which  we  have  stood  with  great  pleasure  to  see  careering 
about  it  of  a  fine  afternoon,  when  a  western  wind  had  swept 
back  ftie  smoke  towards  the  city,  and  showed  the  white  of  tiie 
stone  steeple  piercing  up  into  a  blue  sky.  So  much  for  St. 
Giles's,  whose  very  name  is  a  nuisance  with  some.  It  is  dan- 
gerous to  speak  disrespectfully  of  old  districts.  Who  would 
suppose  that  the  Borough  was  the  most  classical  ground  in  the 
metropolis !  And  yet  it  is  undoubtedly  so.  The  Globe  theatre 
was  there,  of  which  Shakspeare  himself  was  the  proprietor,  and 
for  which  he  wrote  some  of  his  plays.  Globe-lane,  in  which  it 
stood,  is  still  extant,  we  believe,  under  that  name.  It  is  proba- 
ble  that  he  lived  near  it :  it  is  certain  that  he  must  have  been 
much  there.  It  is  also  certain  that  on  the  Borough  side  of  the 
river,  then  and  still  called  the  Bank-side,  in  the  same  lodging, 
having  the  same  wardrobe,  and  some  say  with  other  participa- 
tions more  remarkable,  lived  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  In  the 
Borough,  also,  at  St.  Saviour's,  lie  Fletcher  and  Massinger  in 
one  grave  ;  in  the  same  church,  under  a  monument  and  effigy, 
lies  Chaucer's  contemporary,  Gower ;  and  from  an  inn  in  the 
Borough,  the  existence  of  which  is  still  boasted,  and  the  site 
pointed  out  by  a  picture  and  inscription,  Chaucer  sets  out  his 
pilgrims  and  himself  on  their  famous  road  to  Canterbury. 

To  return  over  the  water,  who  would  expect  anything  poetical 
from  East  Smithfield  ?  Yet  there  was  born  the  most  poetical 
even  of  the  poets,  Spenser.  Pope  was  born  within  the  sound  of 
Bow-bell,  in  a  street  no  less  anti-poetical  than  Lombard-street. 
Gray  was  born  in  Cornhill ;  and  Milton  in  Bread-street,  Cheap, 
side.  The  presence  of  the  same  great  poet  and  patriot  has 
given  happy  memories  to  many  parts  of  the  metropolis.  He 
lived  in  St.  Bride's  Church-yard,  Fleet-street ;  in  Aldersgate- 
street,  in  Jewin-street,  in  Barbican,  in  Bartholomew-close ;  in 
Holborn,  looking  back  to  Lincoln's-inn-Fields  ;  in  Holborn, 
near  Red  Lion  square ;  in  Scotland-yard ;  in  a  house  looKmg 
to  St.  James's  Park,  now  belonging  to  an  eminent  writer  on 
legislation,*  and  lately  occupied  by  a  celebrated  critic  and 
metaphysician  ;f  and  he  died  in  the  Artillery- walk,  Bunhill- 
fields  j  and  was  buried  in  St.  Giles's,  Cripplegate. 

*  Mr.  BRntham.  t  Mr.  Hazlitt. 


CHAP.  VI.]  MEMORIES  OF  THE  METROPOLIS.  17 

Ben  Jonson,  who  was  born  in  "  Hartshorne-lane,  near  Cha- 
ring-cross,"  was  at  one  time  "  master"  of  a  theatre  in  Barbican. 
He  appears  also  to  have  visited  a  tavern  called  the  Sun  and 
Moon,  in  Aldersgate-street ;  and  is  known  to  have  frequenied, 
with  Beaumont  and  others,  the  famous  one  called  the  Mermaid, 
which  was  in  Cornhill.  Beaumont,  writing  to  him  from  the 
country,  in  an  epistle  full  of  jovial  wit,  says, — 

The  sun,  which  doth  the  greatest  comfort  bring 
To  absent  friends,  because  the  self-same  thing 
They  know  they  see,  however  absent,  is 
Here  our  best  haymaker :  forgive  me  this : 
It  is  our  country  style : — In  this  warm  shine 
I  lie,  and  dream  of  your  full  Mermaid  wine. 

Methinks  the  little  wit  I  had,  is  lost. 

Since  I  saw  you ;  for  wit  is  like  a  rest 

Held  up  at  tennis,  which  men  do  the  best 

With  the  best  gamesters.     What  things  have  we  seen 

Done  at  the  Mermaid  !     Hard  words  that  have  been 

So  nimble,  and  so  full  of  subtle  flame. 

As  if  that  every  one  from  whom  they  came 

Had  meant  to  put  his  whole  wit  in  a  jest. 

And  had  resolved  to  live  a  fool  the  rest 

Of  his  dull  life.     Then,  when  there  hath  been  thrown 

Wit,  able  enough  to  justify  the  town 

For  three  days  past, — wit,  that  might  warrant  be 

For  the  whole  city  to  talk  foolishly 

Till  that  were  cancelled,  and  when  that  was  gone. 

We  left  an  air  behind  us,  which  alone 

Was  able  to  make  the  two  next  companies 

Right  witty ; — though  but  downright  fools,  mere  wise. 

The  other  celebrated  resort  of  the  great  wits  of  that  time,  was 
the  Devil  tavern,  in  Fleet-street,  close  to  Temple-bar.  Ben 
Jonson  lived  also  in  Bartholomew-close,  where  Milton  afterwards 
lived.  It  is  in  the  passage  from  the  cloisters  of  Christ's  Hospital 
into  St.  Bartholomew's.  Aubrey  gives  it  as  a  common  opinion, 
that  at  the  time  when  Jonson's  father-in-law  made  him  help  him 
in  his  business  of  bricklayer,  he  worked  with  his  own  hands 
upon  the  Lincoln's-inn  garden  wall,  which  looks  towards  Chan- 
eery-lane,  and  which  seems  old  enough  to  have  some  of  his 
illustrious  brick  and  mortar  remaining. 


18  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  ti 

Under  the  cloisters  in  Christ's  Hospital  (which  stands  in  the 
heart  of  the  city  unknown  to  most  persons,  like  a  house  kept 
invisible  for  young  and  learned  eyes),*  lie  buried  a  multitude  of 
persons  of  all  ranks ;  for  it  was  once  a  monastery  of  Grey 
Friars.  Among  them  is  John  of  Bourbon,  one  of  the  prisoners 
taken  at  the  battle  of  Agincourt.  Here  also  lies  Thomas  Bur- 
dett,  ancestor  of  the  present  Sir  Francis,  who  was  put  to  death 
in  the  reign  of  Edward  the  Fourth,  for  wishing  the  horns  of  a 
favorite  white  Stag  which  the  king  had  killed,  in  the  body  of  the 
person  who  advised  him  to  do  it.  And  here  too  (a  sufficing 
contrast)  lies  Isabella,  wife  of  Edward  the  Second, — 

She-wolf  of  France,  with  unrelenting  fangs. 

Who  tore  the  bowels  of  her  mangled  mate. — Gray. 

Her  "  mate's"  heart  was  buried  with  her,  and  placed  upon  her 
bosom !  a  thing  that  looks  like  the  fantastic  incoherence  of  a 
dream.  It  is  well  we  did  not  know  of  her  presence  when  at 
school ;  otherwise,  after  reading  one  of  Shakspeare's  tragedies, 
we  should  have  run  twice  as  fast  round  the  cloisters  at  night- 
time as  we  used.  Camden,  the  "  nourrice  of  antiquitie," 
received  part  of  his  education  in  this  school ;  and  here  also,  not 
to  mention  a  variety  of  others,  known  in  the  literary  world,  were 
bred  two  of  the  best  and  most  deep-spirited  writers  of  the  present 
day,f  whose  visits  to  the  cloisters  we  well  remember. 

In  a  palace  on  the  site  of  Hatton-Garden,  died  John  of  Gaunt. 
Brook-house,  at  the  corner  of  the  street  of  that  name  in  Holborn, 
was  the  residence  of  the  celebrated  Sir  Fulke  Greville,  Lord 
Brooke,  the  "  friend  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney."  In  the  same  street, 
died,  by  a  voluntary  death  of  poison,  that  extraordinary  person, 
Thomas  Chatte'^'.^n, — 

The  sleepless  boy,  who  perished  in  his  pride. — Wordsworth. 

He  was  buried  in  the  grave-yard  of  the  work-house  in  Shoe 
lane  ; — a  circumstance  at  which  one  can  hardly  help  feeling  a 
movement  of  'ndignation.     Yet  what  could  beadles  and  parish 

*  It  has  since  been  unveiled,  by  an  opening  in  Newgate-street 
t  Coleridge  and  Lamo. 


CHAP.  VI.]  MEMORIES  OF  THE  METROPOLIS.  1^ 

officers  know  about  such  a  being  ?  No  more  than  Horace  Wal. 
pole.  In  Gray's-inn  lived,  and  in  Gray's-inn  garden  meditated, 
Lord  Bacon.  In  Southampton-row,  Holborn,  Cowper  was  fel- 
low-clerk to  an  attorney  with  the  future  Lord  Chancellor  Thur- 
low.  At  one  of  the  Fleet-street  corners  of  Ghancery-lane, 
Cowley,  we  believe,  was  born.  In  Salisbury-court,  Fleet-street^ 
was  the  house  of  1  homas  Sackville,  first  Earl  of  Dorset,  the  pre- 
cursor of  Spenser,  and  one  of  the  authors  of  the  first  regular 
English  tragedy.  On  the  demolition  of  this  house,  part  of  the 
ground  was  occupied  by  the  celebrated  theatre  built  after  the 
Restoration,  at  which  Betterton  performed,  and  of  which  Sir 
William  Davenant  was  manager.  Lastly,  here  was  the  house 
and  printing-office  of  Richardson.  In  Bolt-court,  not  far  dis- 
tant, lived  Dr.  Johnson,  who  resided  also  some  time  in  the  Tem- 
ple. A  list  of  his  numerous  other  residences  is  to  be  found  in 
Boswell.*  Congreve  died  in  Surrey-street,  in  the  Strand,  at  his 
own  house.  At  the  corner  of  Beaufort-buildings,  was  Lilly's, 
the  perfumer,  at  whose  house  the  Taller  was  published.  In 
Maiden-lane,  Covent-garden,  Voltaire  lodged  while  in  London, 
at  the  sign  of  the  White  Peruke.  Tavistock-street  was  then, 
we  believe,  the  Bond-street  of  the  fashionable  world ;  as  Bow- 
street  was  before.  The  change  of  Bow-street  from  fashion  to 
the  police,  with  the  theatre  still  in  attendance,  reminds  one  of 
the  spirit  of  the  Beggar's  Opera.  Button's  Coffee-house,  the 
resort  of  the  wits  of  Queen  Anne's  time,  was  in  Russell-street, 
near  where  the  Hummums  now  stand  ;  and  in  the  same  street, 
at  the  south-west  corner  of  Bow-street,  was  the  tavern  where 
Dryden  held  regal  possession  of  the  arm-chair.  The  whole  of 
Covent-garden  is  classic  ground,  from  its  association  with  the 
dramatic  and  other  wits  of  the  times  of  Dryden  and  Pope.  But- 
ler lived,  perhaps  died,  in  Rose-street,  and  was  buried  in  Co 
vent-garden  churchyard  ;  where  Peter  Pindar  the  other  day  fol- 
lowed him.  In  Leicester-square,  on  the  site  of  Miss  Linwood's 
exhibition  and  other  houses,  was  the  town-mansion  of  the  Syd- 

*  The  temple  must  have  had  many  eminent  inmates.  Among  them  it  ia 
believed  was  Chaucer,  who  is  also  said,  upon  the  strength  of  an  old  record, 
to  have  been  fined  two  shillings  for  beating  a  Franciscan  friar  in  Fleet- 
itreet 

3 


so  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap   r  ■ 

neys,  Earls  of  Leicester,  the  family  of  Sir  Philip  and  Algernon 
Sydney.  In  the  same  square  lived  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  and 
Hogarth.  Dryden -lived  and  died  in  Gerrard-street,  in  a  house 
which  looked  backwards  into  the  garden  of  Leicester-house. 
Newton  lived  in  St.  Martin's-street,  on  the  south  side  of  the 
square.  Steele  lived  in  Bury-street,  St.  James's :  he  furnishes 
an  illustrious  precedent  for  the  loungers  in  St.  James's-street, 
where  a  scandal-monger  of  those  times  delighted  to  detect  Isaac 
BickerstafF  in  the  person  of  Captain  Steele,  idling  before  the 
coffee-houses,  and  jerking  his  leg  and  stick  alternately  against 
the  pavement.  We  have  mentioned  the  birth  of  Ben  Jonson 
near  Charing-cross.  Spenser  died  at  an  inn,  where  he  put  up 
on  his  arrival  from  Ireland,  in  King-street,. Westminster, — the 
same  which  runs  at  the  back  of  Parliament-street  to  the  Abbey. 
Sir  Thomas  More  lived  at  Chelsea.  Addison  lived  and  died  in 
Holland-house,  Kensington,  now  the  residence  of  the  accomplish- 
ed nobleman  who  takes  his  title  from  it.  In  Brook-street,  Gros- 
venor-square,  lived  Handel ;  and  in  Bentinck-street,  Manches- 
ter-square, Gibbon.  We  have  omitted  to  mention  that  De  Foe 
kept  a  hosier's  shop  in  Cornhill ;  and  that  on  the  site  of  the 
present  Southampton-buildings,  Chancery-lane,  stood  the  man- 
sion of  the  Wriothesleys,  Earls  of  Southampton,  one  of  whom 
was  the  celebrated  friend  of  Shakspeare.  But  what  have  we 
not  omitted  also  ?  No  less  an  illustrious  head  than  the  Boar's, 
in  Eastcheap, — the  Boar's-head  tavern,  the  scene  of  Falstaff's 
revels.  We  believe  the  place  is  still  marked  out  by  the  sign.* 
But  who  knows  not  Eastcheap  and  the  Boar's-head  ?  Have  we 
not  all  been  theife,  time  out  of  mind  ?  And  is  it  not  a  more 
real  as  well  as  notorious  thing  to  us  than  the  London  tavern,  or 
the  Crown  and  Anchor,  or  the  Hummums,  or  White's,  or 
What's-his-name's,  or  any  other  of  your, contemporary  or  fleet- 
ing taps  ? 

But  a  line  or  two,  a  single  sentence  in  an  autaor  of  former 
times,  will  often  give  a  value  to  the  commonest  object.  It  not 
only  gives  us  a  sense  of  its  duration,  but  we  seem  to  be  lookii^ 

•  It  has  lately  disappeared,  in  the  alterations  occasioned  bv  the  new  Lon- 
don Bridge. 


CHAP.  VI.]  MEMORIES  OF  THE  METROPOLIS.  21 

at  it  in  company  with  its  old  observer ;  and  we  are  reminded  at  the 
same  time  of  all  that  was  agreeable  in  him.  "We  never  saw,  for 
instance,  the  gilt  ball  at  the  top  of  the  College  of  Physicians,* 
without  thinking  of  that  pleasant  mention  of  it  in  Garth's  Dispen- 
sary,  and  of  all  the  wit  and  generosity  of  that  amiable  man  : — 

Not  far  from  that  most  celebrated  placef, 
Where  angry  Justice  shows  her  avA'ful  face, 
Where  little  villains  must  submit  to  fate, 
That  great  ones  may  enjoy  the  world  in  state 
There  stands  a  dome,  majestic  to  the  sight. 
And  sumptuous  arches  bear  its  oval  height ; 
A  golden  globe,  placed  high  with  artful  skill. 
Seems,  to  the  distant  sight,  a  gilded  pill. 

Gay,  in  describing  the  inconvenience  of  the  late  narrow  part 
of  the  Strand,  by  St.  Clement's,  took  away  a  portion  of  its 
unpleasantness  to  the  next  generation,  by  associating  his  memory 
with  the  objects  in  it.  We  did  not  miss  without  regret  even  the 
"  combs"  that  hung  "  dangling  in  your  face"  at  a  shop  which  he 
describes,  and  which  was  standing  till  the  late  improvements 
took  place.  The  rest  of  the  picture  is  still  alive.  (Trivia,  b. 
III.) 

Where  the  fair  columns  of  St.  Clement  stand, 

Whose  straitened  bounds  encroach  upon  the  Strand ; 

Where  the  low  pent-house  bows  the  walker's  head, 

And  the  rough  pavement  wounds  the  yielding  tread 

Where  not  a  post  protects  the  narrow  space, 

And  strung  in  twines,  combs  dangle  in  thy  face ; 

Summon  at  once  thy  courage,  rouse  thy  care ; 

Stand  firm,  look  back,  be  resolute,  beware  ! 

Forth  issuing  from  steep  lanes,  the  colliers'  steeds 

Drag  the  black  load ;  another  cart  succeeds ; 

Team  follows  team,  crowds  heaped  on  crowds  appear. 

And  wait  impatient  till  the  road  grow  clear. 

There  is  a  touch  in  the  Winter  Picture  in  the  same  poem; 
which  everybody  will  recognize  : — 

At  White's  the  harnessed  chairman  idly  stands. 
And  swings  around  his  waist  his  tingling  hands. 

•  In  Warwick-lane,  now  a  manufactory.  f  The  Old  Bailey. 


22  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  vi 

The  bewildered  passenger  in  the  Seven  Dials  is  compared  to 
Theseus  in  the  Cretan  labyrinth.  And  thus  we  come  round  to 
the  point  at  which  we  began. 

Before  we  rest  our  wings,  however,  we  must  take  another 
dart  over  the  city  as  far  as  Stratford  at  Bow,  where,  with  all  due 
tenderness  for  boarding-school  French,  a  joke  of  Chaucer's  has 
existed  as  a  piece  of  local  humor  for  nearly  four  hundred  and 
fifty  years.  Speaking  of  the  Prioress,  who  makes  such  a  deli- 
cate figure  among  his  Canterbury  Pilgrims,  he  tells  us,  in  the 
list  of  her  accomplishments,  that — 

French  she  spake  full  faire  and  featously ; 

adding  with  great  gravity — 

After  the  school  of  Stratforde  atte  Bowe ; 
For  French  of  Paris  was  to  her  unkn«w* 


CHAP.  VII.]  ADVICE  TO  THE  MELANCHOLY.  2.3 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Advice  to  the  Melancholy. 

If  you  are  melancholy  for  the  first  time,  you  will  find  upon  a  little 
inquiry,  that  others  have  been  melancholy  many  times,  and  yet 
are  cheerful  now.  If  you  have  been  melancholy  many  times, 
recollect  that  you  have  got  over  all  those  times ;  and  try  if  you 
cannot  find  out  means  of  getting  over  them  better. 

Do  not  imagine  that  mind  alone  is  concerned  in  your  bad 
spirits.  The  body  has  a  great  deal  to  do  with  these  matters. 
The  mind  may  undoubtedly  affect  the  body  ;  but  the  body  also 
affects  the  mind.  There  is  a  re-action  between  them ;  and  by 
lessening  it  on  either  side,  you  diminish  the  pain  on  both. 

If  you  are  melancholy,  and  know  not  why,  be  assured  it  must 
arise  entirely  from  some  physical  weakness ;  and  do  your  best  to 
strengthen  yourself.  The  blood  of  the  melancholy  man  is  thick 
and  slow ;  the  blood  of  a  lively  man  is  clear  and  quick.  En- 
deavor therefore  to  put  your  blood  in  motion.  Exercise  is  the 
best  way  to  do  it ;  but  you  may  also  help  yourself,  in  modera- 
tion, with  wine,  or  other  excitements.  Only  you  must  t?ke  care 
so  to  proportion  the  use  of  any  artificial  stimulus,  that  it  may  not 
render  the  blood  languid  by  over-exciting  it  at  first ;  and  'hat 
you  may  be  able  to  keep  up,  by  the  natural  stimulus  only,  ti*"* 
help  you  have  given  yourself  by  the  artificial. 

Regard  the  bad  weather  as  somebody  has  advised  us  to  handle 
the  nettle.  In  proportion  as  you  are  delicate  with  it,  it  will  make 
you  feel ;  but 

Grasp  it  like  a  man  of  mettle, 
And  the  rogue  obeys  you  well. 

Do  not  the  less,  however,  on  that  account,  take  all  reasonable 
precaution  and  arms  against  it, — your  boots,  &c.,  against  wet  feet, 

3* 


24  THE  INDICATOR  [chap,  vn 

and  your  great-coat  or  umbrella  against  the  rain.  It  is  timidity 
and  flight,  which  are  to  be  deprecated,  not  proper  armor  for  the 
battle.  The  first  will  lay  you  open  to  defeat,  on  the  least  attack. 
A  proper  use  of  the  latter  will  only  keep  you  strong  for  it.  Plato 
had  such  a  high  opinion  of  exercise,  that  he  said  it  was  a  cure 
even  for  a  wounded  conscience.  Nor  is  this  opinion  a  dangerous 
one.  For  there  is  no  system,  even  of  superstition,  however 
severe  or  cruel  in  other  matters,  that  does  not  allow  a  wounded 
conscience  to  be  curable  by  some  means.  Nature  will  work  out 
its  rights  and  its  kindness  some  way  or  other,  through  the  worst 
sophistications ;  and  this  is  one  of  the  instances  in  which  she 
seems  to  raise  herself  above  all  contingencies.  The  conscience 
may  have  been  wounded  by  artificial  or  by  real  guilt ;  but  then 
she  will  tell  it  in  those  extremities,  that  even  the  real  guilt  may 
have  been  produced  by  circumstances.  It  is  her  kindness  alone, 
which  nothing  can  pull  down  from  its  predominance. 

See  fair  play  between  cares  and  pastimes.  Diminish  your 
artificial  wants  as  much  as  possible,  whether  you  are  rich  or 
poor  ;  for  the  rich  man's,  increasing  by  indulgence,  are  apt  to  out- 
weigh even  the  abundance  of  his  means ;  and  the  poor  man's 
diminution  of  them  renders  his  means  the  greater.  On  the 
other  hand,  increase  all  your  natural  and  healthy  enjoyments. 
Cultivate  your  afternoon  fire-side,  the  society  of  your  friends,  the 
company  of  agreeable  children,  music,  theatres,  amusing  books, 
an  urbane  and  generous  gallantry.  He  who  thinks  any  innocent 
pastime  foolish,  has  either  to  grow  wiser  or  is  past  the  ability  to 
do  so.  In  the  one  case,  his  notion  of  being  childish  is  itself  a 
childish  notion.  In  the  other,  his  importance  is  of  so  feeble  and 
hollow  a  cast,  that  it  dare  not  move  for  fear  of  tumbling  to 
pieces. 

A  friend  of  ours,  who  knows  as  well  as  any  other  man  how  to 
unite  industry  with  enjoyment,  has  set  an  excellent  example  to 
those  who  can  aflford  the  leisure,  by  taking  two  Sabbaths  every 
week  instead  of  one, — not  Methodistical  Sabbaths,  but  days  of 
rest  which  pay  true  homage  to  the  Supreme  Being  by  enjoying 
his  creation. 

One  of  the  best  pieces  of  advice  for  an  ailing  spirit  is  to  go  to 
no  sudden  extremes — to  adopt  no  great  and  extreme  changes  in 


CHAP.  VII.]  ADVICE    ro  THE  MELANCHOLY.  '>& 

diet  or  other  habits.  They  may  make  a  man  look  very  great 
and  philosophic  to  his  own  mind  ;  but  they  are  not  fit  for  a  being 
to  whom  custom  has  been  truly  said  to  be  a  second  nature.  Dr. 
Cheyne  may  tell  us  that  a  drowning  man  cannot  too  quickly  get 
himself  out  of  the  water;  but  the  analogy  is  not  good.  If  the 
water  has  become  a  second  habit,  he  might  almost  as  well  say 
ihat  a  tish  could  not  get  too  quickly  out  of  it. 

Ifpon  this  point,  Bacon  says  that  we  should  discontinue  whal 
we  think  hurtful  by  little  and  little.  And  he  quotes  with  admi- 
ration the  advice  of  Celsus  :  that  "  a  man  do  vary  and  inter 
change  contraries,  but  rather  with  an  inclination  to  the  more 
benign  extreme."  "  Use  fasting,"  he  says,  "  and  full  eating, 
but  rather  full  eating  ;  watching  and  sleep,  but  rather  sleep ; 
sitting  and  exercise,  but  rather  exercise,  and  the  like  ;  so  shall 
nature  be  cherished,  and  yet  taught  masteries." 

We  cannot  do  better  than  conclude  with  one  or  two  other 
passages  out  of  the  same  Essay,  full  of  his  usual  calm  wisdom 
"  If  you  fly  physic  in  health  altogether,  it  will  be  too  strange  foi 
your  body  when  you  need  it."  (He  means  that  a  general  state 
of  health  should  not  make  us  over-confident  and  contemptuous 
of  physic  ;  but  that  we  should  use  it  moderately  if  required,  that 
it  may  not  be  too  strange  to  us  when  required  most.)  "  If  you 
make  it  too  familiar,  it  will  have  no  extraordinary  effect  when 
sickness  cometh.  I  commend  rather  some  diet  for  certain  sea- 
sons, than  frequent  use  of  physic,  except  it  be  grown  into  a 
custom  ;   for  those  diets  alter  the  body  more,  and  trouble  it  less." 

"  As  for  the  passions  and  studies  of  the  mind,"  says  he,  "  avoid 
envy,  anxious  fears,  anger  fretting  inwards,  su  jtle  and  knotty 
inquisitions,  joys  and  exhilarations  in  excess,  sadness  not  com 
municated"  (for  as  he  says  finely,  somewhere  else,  they  who 
keep  their  griefs  to  themselves,  are  "  cannibals  of  their  own 
hearts").  "  Entertain  hopes  ;  mirth  rather  than  joy  "  (that  is 
to  say,  cheerfulness  rather  than  boisterous  merriment) ;  "  variety 
of  delights  rather  than  surfeit  of  them  ;  wonder  and  admiration, 
and  therefore  novelties ;  studies  that  fill  the  mind  with  splendid 
and  illustrious  objects,  as  histories,  fables,  and  contemplations  of 
nature." 


86  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  viii 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Charles  Brandon  and  Mary  Queen  of  France. 

The  fortune  of  Charles  Brandon  was  remarkable.  He  was  an 
honest  man,  yet  the  favorite  of  a  despot.  He  was  brave,  hand- 
some, accomplished,  possessed  even  delicacy  of  sentiment ;  yet 
he  retained  the  despot's  favor  to  the  last.  He  even  had  the 
perilous  honor  of  being  beloved  by  his  master's  sister,  without 
having  the  least  claim  to  it  by  birth  :  and  yet,  instead  of  its 
destroying  them  both,  he  was  allowed  to  be  her  husband. 

Charles  Brandon  was  the  son  of  Sir  William  Brandon,  whose 
skull  was  cleaved  at  Bosworth  by  Richard  the  Third,  while  bear- 
ing the  standard  of  the  Duke  of  Richmond.  Richard  dashed  at 
the  standard,  and  appears  to  have  been  thrown  from  his  horse  by 
Sir  William,  whose  strength  and  courage,  however,  could  not 
save  him  from  the  angry  desperation  of  the  king. 

But  Time,  whose  wheeles  with  various  motion  rnnne, 
Repayes  this  service  fully  to  his  sonne. 
Who  marries  Richmond's  daughter,  born  betweene 
Two  royal  parents,  and  endowed  a  queene. 

Sir  John  Beaumonfs  Bosworth  Field. 

The  father's  fate  must  have  had  its  effect  in  secui'ing  the  foi'tunes 
of  the  son.  Young  Brandon  grew  up  with  Henry  the  Seventh's 
children,  and  was  the  playmate  of  his  future  king  and  bride.  The 
prince,  as  he  increased  in  years,  seems  to  have  carried  the  idea 
of  Brandon  with  him  like  that  of  a  second  self;  and  the  princess, 
whose  affection  was  not  hindered  from  becoming  personal  by 
anything  sisterly,  nor,  on  the  other  hand,  allowed  to  waste  itself 
in  too  equal  a  familiarity,  may  have  felt  a  double  impulse  given 
to  it  by  the  improbability  of  her  ever  being  suffered  to  become 
his  wife.  Royal  females,  in  most  countries,  have  certainly  none 
of  the  advantages  of  their  rank,  whatever  the  males  may  have 


CHAP,  vm.]  CHARLES  BRANDON— MAR V  OF  FRANCE  27 

Mary  was  destined  to  taste  the  usual  bitternci-\s  of  their  lot ;  but 
she  was  repaid.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  war  with  France,  she 
was  married  to  the  old  king  Louis  the  Twelfth,  who  witnessed 
from  a  couch  the  exploits  of  her  future  husband  at  the  tourna- 
ments. The  doings  of  Charles  Brandon  that  time  were  long 
remembered.  The  love  between  him  and  the  young  queen  was 
suspected  by  the  French  Court ;  and  he  had  just  seen  her  enter 
Paris  in  the  midst  of  a  gorgeous  procession,  like  Aurora  come  to 
marry  Tithonus.  Brandon  dealt  nis  chivalry  about  him  accord- 
ingly with  such  irresistible  vigor,  that  the  dauphin,  in  a  fit  of 
jealousy,  secretly  introduced  into  tne  contest  a  huge  German,  who 
was  thought  to  be  of  a  strength  incomparable.  But  Brandon 
grappled  with  him,  and  with  seeming  disdain  and  detection,  so 
pummelled  him  about  the  head  with  the  hilt  of  his  sword,  that  the 
blood  burst  through  the  vizor.  Imagine  the  feelings  of  the  queen, 
when  he  came  and  made  her  an  offering  of  the  German's  shield  ! 
Drayton,  in  his  Heroical  Epistle,  we  know  not  on  what  authority, 
tells  us,  that  on  one  occasion  during  the  combats,  perhaps  this 
particular  one,  she  could  not  help  crying  out,  "  Hurt  not  my 
sweet  Charles,"  or  words  to  that  efFect.  He  then  pleasantly 
represents  her  as  doing  away  suspicion  by  falling  to  commenda- 
tions of  the  dauphin,  and  afTecting  not  to  know  who  the  conquer- 
ing knight  was — an  ignorance  not  very  probable  ;  but  the  knights 
sometimes  disguised  themselves  purposely. 

The  old  king  did  not  long  survive  his  festivities.  He  died  in 
less  than  three  months,  on  the  first  day  of  the  year  1515  ;  and 
Brandon,  who  had  been  created  Duke  of  Suffolk  the  year  before, 
reappeared  at  the  French  court,  with  letters  of  condolence,  and 
more  persuasive  looks.  The  royal  widow  was  young,  beautiful, 
and  rich ;  and  it  was  likely  that  her  hand  would  be  sought  by 
many  princely  lovers  ;  but  she  was  now  resolved  to  reward  her- 
self  for  her  sacrifice,  and  in  less  than  two  months  she  privately 
married  her  first  love.  The  queen,  says  a  homely  but  not  mean 
poet  (Warner,  in  his  Anion's  England),  thought  that  to  cast  too 
many  doubts 

Were  oft  to  erre  no  lesse 
Than  to  be  -ash  :  and  thus  nt  ac/obt 


qfi  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  viii 

The  gentle  queen  did  guesse, 
That  seeing  this  or  that,  at  first, 

Or  last,  had  lilielyhood, 
A  man  so  much  a  manly  man 

Were  dastardly  withstood. 
Then  kisses  revelled  on  their  lips, 

To  either's  equal  good. 

Henry  showed  great  anger  at  first,  real  or  pretendea  ;  but  he 
had  not  then  been  pampered  into  unbearable  self-will  by  a  long 
reign  of  tyranny.  He  forgave  his  sister  and  friend;  and  they 
were  publicly  wedded  at  Greenwich  on  the  13th  of  May. 

It  was  during  the  festivities  on  this  occasion  (at  least  we  believe 
so,  for  we  have  not  the  chivalrous  Lord  Herbert's  Life  of  Henrv 
the  Eighth  by  us,  which  is  most  probably  the  authority  for  the 
story  ;  and  being  a  good  thing,  it  is  omitted,  as  usual,  by  the  his- 
torians) that  Charles  Brandon  gave  a  proof  of  the  fineness  of  his 
nature,  equally  just  towards  himself,  and  conciliating  towards  the 
jealous.  He  appeared,  at  a  tournament,  on  a  saddle-cloth,  made 
half  of  frize  and  half  of  cloth-of-gold,  and  with  a  motto  on  each 
half.     One  of  the  mottos  ran  thus  : 

Cloth  of  frize,  be  not  too  bold. 

Though  thou  art  match'd  with  cloth  of  gold. 

The  other : 

Cloth  of  gold,  do  not  despise, 

Though  thou  art  matched  with  cloth  of  frize. 

It  is  this  beautiful  piece  of  sentiment  which  puts  a  heart  into 
nis  history  and  makes  it  worthy  remembering. 


CHAP.  IX.]  ANCIENT  HOUSEHOLD  GODS.  29 


CHAPTER  IX. 

On  the  Household  Gods  of  the  Ancients. 

Thb  Ancients  had  three  kinds  of  Household  Gods — the  Daimon 
(Dsemon)  or  Genius,  the  Penates,  and  the  Lares.  The  first  was 
supposed  to  be  a  spirit  allotted  to  every  man  from  his  birth,  some 
say  with  a  companion  ;  and  that  one  of  them  was  a  suggester  of 
good  thoughts  and  the  other  of  evil.  It  seems,  however,  that  the 
Genius  was  a  personification  of  the  conscience,  or  rather  of  the 
prevailing  impulses  of  the  mind,  or  the  other  self  of  a  man  ;  and 
it  was  in  this  sense  most  likely  that  Socrates  condescended  to 
speak  of  his  well-known  Daemon,  Genius,  or  Familiar  Spirit,  who, 
as  he  was  a  good  man,  always  advised  him  to  a  good  end.  The 
Genius  was  thought  to  paint  ideas  upon  the  mind  in  as  lively  a 
m.anner  as  if  in  a  looking-glass  ;  upon  which  we  chose  which  of 
them  to  adopt.  Spenser,  a  deeply  learned  as  well  as  imaginative 
poet,  describes  it  in  one  of  his  most  comprehensive  though  not 
most  poetical  stanzas,  as 

That  celestial  Powre,  to  whom  the  care 

Of  life,  and  generation  of  all 
That  lives,  pertaine  in  charge  particulare  ; 
Who  wondrous  things  concerning  our  welfare. 
And  straunge  phantomes  doth  lett  us  ofte  foresee. 
And  ofte  of  secret  ills  bids  us  beware  : 
That  is  our  Selfe,  whom  though  we  do  not  see 
Yet  each  doth  in  himselfe  it  well  perceive  to  bee. 

Therefore  a  God  him  sage  antiquity 

Did  wisely  make. — Faerie  Queene,  book  ii.,  st.  47. 

Of  the  belief  in  an  Evil  Genius,  a  celebrated  example  is  fur 
nished  in  Plutarch's  account  of  Brutus's  vision,  of  jvhich  Shak- 
speare  has  given  so  fine  a  version  (Julius  Casar,  Act  4,  Sc.  3) 
Beliefs  of  this  kind   seem   traceable    from   one   superstition  to 


so  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  ix. 

another,  and  in  some  instances  are  immediately  so.  But  fear,  and 
ignorance,  and  even  the  humility  of  knowledge,  are  at  hand  to 
furnish  them,  where  precedent  is  wanting.  There  is  no  doubt, 
however,  that  the  Romans,  who  copied  and  in  general  vulgarized 
the  Greek  mythology,  took  their  Genius  from  the  Greek  Daimon  : 
and  as  the  Greek  word  has  survived  and  taken  shape  in  the  com- 
mon word  Daemon,  which,  by  scornful  reference  to  the  Heathen 
religion,  came  at  last  to  signify  a  Devil,  so  the  Latin  word  Genius, 
not  having  been  used  by  the  translators  of  the  Greek  Testament, 
has  survived  with  a  better  meaning,  and  is  employed  to  express 
our  most  genial  and  intellectual  faculties.  Such  and  such  a  man 
is  said  to  indulge  his  genius — he  has  a  genius  for  this  and  that  art 
— he  has  a  noble  genius,  a  fine  genius,  an  original  and  peculiar 
genius.  And  as  the  Romans,  from  attributing  a  genius  to  every 
man  at  his  birth,  came  to  attribute  one  to  places  and  to  soils,  and 
other  more  comprehensive  peculiarities,  so  we  have  adopted  the 
same  use  of  the  term  into  our  poetical  phraseology.  We  speak 
also  of  the  genius  or  idiomatic  peculiarity  of  a  language.  One  of 
the  most  curious  and  edifying  uses  of  the  word  Genius  took  place 
in  the  English  translation  of  the  French  Arabian  Nights,  which 
speaks  of  our  old  friends  the  Genie  and  the  Genies.  This  is 
nothing  more  than  the  French  word  retained  from  the  original 
translator,  who  applied  the  Roman  word  Genius  to  the  Arabian 
Dive  or  Elf. 

One  of  the  stories  with  which  Pausanias  has  enlivened  liis  des- 
cription of  Greece,  is  relative  to  a  Genius.  He  says  that  one  of 
the  companions  of  Ulysses  having  been  killed  by  the  people  of 
Temesa,  they  were  fated  to  sacrifice  a  beautiful  virgin  every 
year  to  his  manes.  They  were  about  to  immolate  one  as  usual, 
when  Euthymus,  a  conqueror  in  the  Olympic  Games,  touched 
with  pity  at  her  fate  and  admiration  of  her  beauty,  fell  in  love 
with  her,  and  resolved  to  try  if  he  could  not  put  an  end  to  so 
terrible  a  custom.  He  accordingly  got  permission  from  the  state 
to  marry  her,  provided  he  could  rescue  her  from  her  dreadful 
expectant.  He  armed  himself,  waited  in  the  temple,  and  the 
genius  appeared.  It  was  said  to  have  been  of  an  appalling  pre- 
sence. Its  shape  was  every  way  formidable,  its  color  if  an 
intense  black,  and  it  was  girded  about  with  a  wolf-skin.     But 


CHAP.  IX.]  ANCIENT  HOUSEHOLD  GODS.  31 

Euthymus  fought  and  conquered  it ;  upon  which  it  fled  madly, 
not  only  beyond  the  walls,  but  the  utmost  bounds  of  Temesa, 
and  rushed  into  the  sea. 

The  Penates  were  gods  of  the  house  and  family.  Collec- 
tively speaking  they  also  presided  over  cities,  public  roads,  and 
at  last  over  all  places  with  which  men  were  conversant.  Their 
chief  government  however  was  supposed  to  be  over  the  most 
hmer  and  secret  part  of  the  house,  and  the  subsistence  and  wel- 
fare  of  its  inmates.  'They  were  chosen  at  will  out  of  the  num- 
ber of  the  gods,  as  the  Roman  in  modern  times  chose  his  favor- 
ite  saint.  In  fact  they  were  only  the  higher  gods  themselves, 
descending  into  a  kind  of  household  familiarity.  They  were  the 
personification  of  a  particular  Providence.  The  most  striking 
mention  of  the  Penates  which  we  can  call  to  mind  is  in  one  ot 
Virgil's  most  poetical  passages.  It  is  where  they  appear  to 
jEneas  to  warn  him  from  Crete,  and  announce  his  destined  em- 
pire in  Italy.     (Lik  III.,  v.  147.) 

Nox  erat,  et  terris  animalia  somnus  habebat : 
Effigies  sacrae  divum,  Phrygiique  Penates, 
Quos  mecum  a  Troja,  mediisque  ex  ignibus  urbis 
Extuleram,  visi  ante  oculos  adstare  jacentis 
In  somnis,  multo  manifesti  lumine,  qua  se 
Plena  per  insertas  fundebat  luna  fenestras. 

'Twas  night ;  and  sleep  was  on  all  living  things, 
I  lay,  and  saw  before  my  very  eyes 
Dread  shapes  of  gods,  and  Phrygian  deities, 
The  great  Penates ;  whom  with  reverent  joy 
I  bore  from  out  the  heart  of  burning  Troy. 
Plainly  I  saw  them,  standing  in  the  light 
Which  the  moon  poured  into  the  room  that  night. 

And  again,  after  they  had  addressed  him — 

Nee  sopor  illud  erat :  sed  coram  agnoscere  vultus, 
Velatasque  comas,  praesentiaque  ora  videbar  : 
Tum  gelidus  toto  manabat  corpore  sudor. 

It  wa.«  no  dream  :  1  saw  them  face  to  face, 
Their  hooded  hair ;  and  felt  them  so  beiore 
My  being,  that  I  burst  at  every  pore. 
4 


32  THE  INDICATOR  [chap,  ix 

The  Lares,  or  Lars,  were  the  lesser  and  most  familiar  House- 
hold Gods,  and  though  their  offices  were  afterwards  extended  a 
good  deal,  in  the  same  way  as  those  of  the  Penates,  with  whom 
they  are  often  confounded,  their  principal  sphere  was  the  fire- 
place. This  was  in  the  middle  of  the  room ;  and  the  statues  of 
the  Lares  generally  stood  about  it  in  little  niches.  They  are 
said  to  have  been  in  the  shape  of  monkeys ;  more  likely  manni- 
kins,  or  rude  little  human  images.  Some  were  made  of  wax, 
some  of  stone,  and  others  doubtless  of  any  material  for  sculp- 
ture. They  were  represented  with  good-natured  grinning  coun- 
tenances, were  clothed  in  skins,  and  had  little  dogs  at  their  feet. 
Some  writers  make  them  the  offspring  of  the  goddess  Mania,  who 
presided  over  the  spirits  of  the  dead  ;  and  suppose  that  originally 
they  were  the  same  as  those  spirits ;  which  is  a  very  probable 
as  well  as  agreeable  superstition,  the  old  nations  of  Italy  having 
been  accustomed  to  bury  their  dead  in  their  houses.  Upon  this 
supposition  the  good  or  benevolent  spirits  were  called  Familiar 
Lares,  and  the  evil  or  malignant  ones  Larvse  and  Lemures. 
Thus  Milton,  in  his  awful  Hymn  on  the  Nativity  : — 

In  consecrated  earth, 

And  on  the  holy  hearth. 

The  Lars  and  Lemures  moan  with  midnight  plaint. 

In  urns  and  altars  round, 

A  drear  and  dying  sound 

Affrights  the  Flamens  at  their  service  quaint 

And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat, 

While  each  Peculiar  Power  foregoes  his  wonted  seat. 

But  Ovid  tells  a  story  of  a  gossiping  nymph  Lara,  who  having 
told  Juno  of  her  husband's  amour  with  Juturna,  was  "  sent  to 
Hell "  by  him,  and  courted  by  Mercury  on  the  road  ;  the  con- 
sequence of  which  was  the  birth  of  the  Lares.  This  seems  to 
have  a  natural  reference  enough  to  the  gossiping  over  fire- 
places. 

It  is  impossible  not  to  be  struck  with  the  resemblance  between 
these  lesser  iiousehold  Gods  and  some  of  the  offices  of  our  old 
English  elves  and  fairies.  Dacier,  in  a  note  upon  Horace  (Lib. 
1..  Od.  12),  informs  us,  that  in  some  parts  of  Languedoc,  in  his 


CHAP.  IX.]  ANCIENT  HOUSEHOLD  GODS.  .»S 

time,  the  fire-place  was  still  called  the  Lar;  and  that  the  name 
was  also  given  to  houses. 

Uerrick,  a  poet  of  the  Anacreontic  order  in  the  time  of  Eliza- 
6eth,  who  was  visited,  perhaps  more  than  any  other,  e.xcept 
Spenser,  with  a  sense  of  the  pleasantest  parts  of  the  ancient 
mythology,  has  written  some  of  his  lively  little  odes  upon  the 
Lares.  We  have  not  them  by  us  at  this  moment,  but  we 
remember  one  beginning, — 

It  was,  and  still  my  care  is 
To  worship  you,  the  Lares. 

We  take  the  opportunity  of  the  Lar's  being  mentioned  in  it^ 
to  indulge  ourselves  in  a  little  poem  of  Martial's,  very  charming 
for  its  simplicity.  It  is  an  Epitaph  on  a  child  of  the  name  of 
Erotion. 

Hie  festinata  requiescit  Erotion  umbra, 
Crimine  quam  fati  sexta  peremit  hiems. 

Quisquis  eris  nostri  post  me  regnator  agelli, 
Manibus  exiguis  annua  justa  dato. 

Sic  Lare  perpetuo,  sic  turba  sos])ite,  solus 
Flebilis  in  terra  sit  lapis  iste  tua. 

THE  EPITAPH  OF  EROTION. 

Underneath  this  greedy  stone 

Lies  little  sweet  Erotion ; 

Whom  the  fates,  with  hearts  as  cold. 

Nipt  away  at  six  years  old. 

Thou,  whoever  thou  may'st  be, 

That  hast  this  small  field  after  me. 

Let  the  yearly  rites  be  paid 

To  her  little  slender  shade ; 

So  shall  no  disease  or  jar 

Hurt  thy  house  or  chill  thy  Lar; 

But  this  tomb  here  be  alone. 

The  only  melancholy  stone. 


14  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  x 


CHAPTER  X. 

Social  Genealogy. 

It  is  a  curious  and  pleasant  thing  to  consider  that  a  link  of  per- 
sonal acquaintance  can  be  traced  up  from  the  authors  of  our  own 
times  to  those  of  Shakspeare,  and  to  Shakspeare  himself.  Ovid, 
in  recording  his  intimacy  with  Propertius  and  Horace,  regrets 
that  he  had  only  seen  Virgil  (^Trist.,  Lib.  IV.,  v.  51).  But  still 
he  thinks  the  sight  of  him  worth  remembering.  And  Pope, 
when  a  child,  prevailed  on  some  friends  to  take  him  to  a  coffee- 
house which  Dryden  frequented,  merely  to  look  at  him  ;  which 
he  did,  with  great  satisfaction.  Now  such  of  us  as  have  shaken 
hands  with  a  living  poet,  might  be  able  to  reckon  up  a  series  of 
connecting  shakes,  to  the  very  hand  that  wrote  of  Hamlet,  and 
of  Falstaif,  and  of  Desdemona. 

With  some  living  poets  it  is  certain.  There  is  Thomas  Moore, 
for  instance,  who  knew  Sheridan.  Sheridan  knew  Johnson,  who 
was  the  friend  of  Savage,  who  knew  Steele,  who  knew  Pope. 
Pope  was  intimate  with  Congreve,  and  Congreve  vv^ith  Dryden. 
Dryden  is  said  to  have  visited  Milton.  Milton  is  said  to  have 
known  Davenant ;  and  to  have  been  saved  by  him  from  the 
revenge  of  the  restored  court,  in  return  for  having  saved  Dave- 
nant from  the  revenge  of  the  Commonwealth.  But  if  the  link 
between  Dryden  and  Milton,  "and  Milton  and  Davenant,  is  some- 
what apocryphal,  or  ralher  dependant  on  tradition  (for  Rich- 
ardson the  painter  tells  us  the  story  from  Pope,  who  had  it  from 
Betterton  the  actor,  one  of  Davenant's  company),  it  may  be  car- 
ried  at  once  from  Dryden  to  Davenant,  with  whom  he  was 
unquestionably  intimate.  Davenant  then  knew  Hobbes,  who 
knew  Bacon,  who  knew  Ben  Jonson,  who  was  intimate  with 
Beaumont  au'^  Fletcher,  Chapman,  Donne,  Drayton,  Camden, 
Selden,  Clarf  ndon,  Sydney,  Raleigh,  and  perhaps  all  the  great 
men  of  Elizabeth's  and  James's  time,  the   greatest  of  them   all 


CHAP.  X.]  SOCIAL  GENEALOGY.  'iO 

undoubtedly.     Thus  have  we  a  link  of  "  beamy  hands  "   from 
our  own  times  up  to  Shakspeare. 

In  this  friendly  genealogy  we  have  omitted  the  numerous 
side-branches  or  common  friendships.  It  may  be  mentioned, 
however,  in  order  not  to  omit  Spenser,  that  Davenant  resided 
some  time  in  the  family  of  Lord  Brooke,  the  friend  of  Sir  Philip 
Sidney.  Spenser's  intimacy  with  Sidney  is  mentioned  by  him- 
self  in  a  letter,  still  extant,  to  Gabriel  Harvey. 

We  will  now  give  the  authorities  for  our  intellectual  pedigree. 
Sheridan  is  mentioned  in  Boswell  as  being  admitted  to  the  cele- 
brated club  of  which  Johnson,  Goldsmith,  and  others  were  mem- 
bers. He  had  just  written  the  School  for  Scandal,  which  made 
him  the  more  welcome.  Of  Johnson's  friendship  with  Savage 
(we  cannot  help  beginning  the  sentence  with  his  favorite  leading 
preposition),  the  well-known  life  is  an  interesting  record.  It  is 
said  that  in  the  commencement  of  their  friendship,  they  some- 
times wandered  together  about  London  for  want  of  a  lodging — 
more  likely  for  Savage's  want  of  it,  and  Johnson's  fear  of  offend- 
ing him  by  offering  a  share  of  his  own.  But  we  do  not  remem- 
ber how  this  circumstance  is  related  by  Boswell. 

Savage's  intimacy  with  Steele  is  recorded  in  a  pleasant  anec- 
dote which  he  told  Johnson.  Sir  Richard  once  desired  him, 
"  with  an  air  of  the  utmost  importance,"  says  his  biographer,  "  to 
come  very  early  to  his  house  the  next  morning.  Mr.  Savage 
came  as  he  had  promised,  found  the  chariot  at  the  door,  and  Sir 
Richard  waiting  for  him  and  ready  to  go  out.  What  was 
intended,  and  whither  they  were  to  go.  Savage  could  not  conjec- 
ture, and  was  not  willing  to  inquire,  but  immediately  seated  him- 
self with  Sir  Richard.  The  coachman  was  ordered  to  drive, 
and  they  hurried  with  the  utmost  expedition  to  Hyde-park  Corner, 
where  they  stopped  at  a  petty  tavern,  and  retired  to  a  private 
room.  Sir  Richard  then  informed  him  that  he  intended  to  publish 
a  pamphlet,  and  that  he  had  desired  him  to  come  thither  that  ho. 
might  write  for  him.  They  soon  sat  down  to  the  work.  Sir 
Richard  dictated  and  Savage  wrote,  tid  the  dinner  that  had 
Deen  ordered  was  put  upon  the  table.  Savage  was  surprised 
at  the  meanness  of  the  entertainment,  and  after  some  hesi^ 
tatioii,  ventured  to  ask  for  wine,  which  Sir  Richard,  not  withoi 


.^0  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  x 

reluctance,  ordered  to  be  brought.  They  then  finished  their  din- 
ner, and  proceeded  in  their  pamphlet,  which  they  concluded  in 
♦he  afternoon. 

"  Mr.  Savage  then  imagined  that  his  task  was  over,  and 
expected  that  Sir  Richard  would  call  for  the  reckoning  and  return 
home  ;  but  his  expectations  deceived  him,  for  Sir  Richard  told 
him  that  he  was  without  money,  and  that  the  pamphlet  must  be 
sold  before  the  dinner  could  be  paid  for,  and  Savage  was  therefore 
obliged  to  go  an!l  oHer  their  new  production  for  sale  for  two 
guineas,  which  with  some  difficulty  he  obtained.  Sir  Richard 
then  returned  home,  having  retired  that  day  only  to  avoid  his  credi- 
tors, and  composed  the  pamphlet  only  to  discharge  his  reckoning." 
Steele's  acquaintance  with  Pope,  who  wrote  some  papers  foi 
his  Guardian,  appears  in  the  letters  and  other  works  of  the  wits  of 
that  time.  Johnson  supposes  that  it  was  his  friendly  interference, 
which  attempted  to  bring  Pope  and  Addison  together  after  a 
jealous  separation.  Pope's  friendship  with  Congreve  appears 
also  in  his  letters.  He  also  dedicated  the  Iliad  to  Congreve,  over 
the  heads  of  peers  and  patrons.  The  dramatist,  whose  conversa- 
tion most  likely  partook  of  the  elegance  and  wit  of  his  writings, 
and  whose  manners  appear  to  have  rendered  him  a  universal 
favorite,  had  the  honor,  in  his  youth,  of  attracting  the  respect  and 
regard  of  Dryden.  He  was  publicly  hailed  by  him  as  his  suc- 
cessor, and  affectionately  bequeathed  the  care  of  his  laurels. 
Dryden  did  not  know  who  had  been  looking  at  him  in  the  coffee- 
house. 

Already  I  am  worn  with  cares  and  age, 

And  just  abandoning  th'  ungrateful  stage; 

Unprofitably  kept  at  Heaven's  expense, 

I  live  a  rent-charge  on  his  providence. 

But  you,  whom  every  Muse  and  Grace  adorn. 

Whom  I  foresee  to  better  fortune  born, 

Be  kind  to  my  remains ;  and  0  defend, 

Against  your  judgment,  your  departed  friend  ! 

Let  not  th'  insulting  foe  my  fame  pursue, 

But  shade  those  laurels  wlach  descend  to  you. 

Congreve  did  so,  with  great  tender:  ess. 

Dryaen  is  leported  to  have  asked  Milton's  permission  to  tuiii 
his  Paradise  Lost  into  a  rhyming  tragedy,  which  he  called  the 
State  of  Innocence,  or  the  Fall  of  Man  ;  a  work,  such  as  might  be 


CHAP.  X.]  SOCIAL  GENEALOGY.  37 

expected  from  such  a  mode  of  alteration.  The  venerable  poet  i.s 
said  to  have  an.swered,  "  Ay,  young  man,  you  may  tag  my  verses, 
if  you  will."  Be  the  connexion,  however,  of  Dryden  with  Milton, 
or  of  Milton  with  Davenant,  as  it  may,  Dryden  wrote  the  aheva-uon 
of  Shakspeare's  Tempest,  as  it  is  now  perpetrated,  in  conjunction 
with  Davenant.  They  were  great  hands,  but  they  should  not 
have  touched  the  pure  grandeur  of  Shakspeare.  The  intimacy 
of  Davenant  with  Hobbes  is  to  be  seen  by  their  correspondence 
prefixed  to  Gondibert.  Hobbes  was  at  one  time  secretary  to 
Lord  Bacon,  a  singularly  illustrious  instance  of  servant  and  mas- 
ter. Bacon  also  had  Ben  Jonson  for  a  retainer  in  a  similar  capa- 
city ;  and  Jonson's  link  with  the  preceding  writers  could  be 
easily  supplied  through  the  medium  ofGreville  and  Sidney,  and 
indeed  of  many  others  of  his  contemporaries.  Here,  then,  we 
arrive  at  Shakspeare,  and  feel  the  electric  virtue  of  his  hand. 
Their  intimacy,  dashed  a  little,  perhaps,  with  jealousy  on  the  part 
of  Jonson,  but  maintained  to  the  last  by  dint  of  the  nobler  part  of 
him,  and  of  Shakspeare's  irresistible  fineness  of  nature,  is  a  thing 
as  notorious  as  their  fame.  Fuller  says  :  "  Many  were  the  wit- 
combates  betwixt  (Shakspeare)  and  Ben  Jonson,  which  two  I 
behold  like  a  Spanish  great  galleon  and  an  English  man-of-war  : 
master  Jonson  (like  the  former)  was  built  far  higher  in  learning  : 
solid,  but  slow  in  his  performances.  Shakspeare,  with  the  Eng- 
lish man-of-war,  lesser  in  bulk,  but  lighter  in  sailing,  could  turn 
with  all  tides,  tack  about,  and  take  advantage  of  all  winds,  by  the 
quickness  of  his  wit  and  invention."  This  is  a  happy  simile, 
with  the  exception  of  what  is  insinuated  about  Jonson's  greater 
solidity.  But  let  Jonson  show  for  himself  the  affection  with  which 
ne  regarded  one,  who  did  not  irritate  or  trample  down  rivalry,  but 
rose  above  it  like  the  sun,  and  turned  emulation  to  worship. 

Soul  of  the  age  ! 
Th'  applause  !  delight !  the  wonder  of  our  stage  ! 
My  Shakspeare,  rise  !     I  will  not  lodge  thee  by 
Chaucer  or  Spenser,  or  bid  Beaumont  lie 
A  little  further,  to  make  thee  a  room  ; 
Thou  art  a  monument  witliout  a  tomb  ; 
And  art  alive  still,  while  thy  book  doth  live, 

And  we  have  wits  to  read,  and  praise  to  give 

***** 

He  was  not  of  an  age,  but  for  all  time. 


3S  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap  xi. 


CHAPTER  XL 

Angling, 

The  anglers  are  a  race  of  men  who  puzzle  us.  We  do  not  mean 
for  their  patience,  which  is  laudable,  nor  for  the  infinite  non-suc- 
cess of  some  of  them,  which  is  desirable.  Neither  do  we  agree 
with  the  good  old  joke  attributed  to  Swift,  that  angling  is  always 
to  be  considered  as  "  a  stick  and  a  string,  with  a  fly  at  one  end  and 
a  fool  at  the  other."  Nay,  if  he  had  books  with  him,  and  a  plea- 
sant day,  we  can  account  for  the  joyousness  of  that  prince  of 
punters,  who,  having  been  seen  in  the  same  spot  one  morning  and 
evening,  and  asked  whether  he  had  had  any  success,  said.  No, 
but  in  the  course  of  the  day  he  had  had  "  a  glorious  nibble." 

But  the  anglers  boast  of  the  innocence  of  their  pastime  ;  yet  it 
puts  fellow-creatures  to  the  torture.  They  pique  themselves  on 
their  meditative  faculties  ;  and  yet  their  only  excuse  is  a  want  of 
thought.  It  is  this  that  puzzles  us.  Old  Isaac  Walton,  their 
patriarch,  speaking  of  his  inquisitorial  abstractions  on  the  banks 
of  a  river,  says, 

Here  we  may 
Think  and  pray, 
Before  death 
Stops  our  breath. 
Other  joys 
Are  but  toys, 
And  to  be  lamented. 

So  saying,  he  "  stops  the  breath"  of  a  trout,  by  plucking  him  up 
into  an  element  too  thin  to  respire,  with  a  hook  and  a  tortured 
worm  in  his  jaws — 

Other  joys 
Are  but  toys 


CHAP.  XI.]  ANGLING.  30 

If  you  ride,  walk,  or  skate,  or  play  at  cricket,  or  at  rackets,  oi 
enjoy  a  ball  or  a  concert,  it  is  "  to  be  lamented."  To  put  plea- 
sure into  the  faces  of  half  a  dozen  agreeable  women,  is  a  toy 
unworthy  of  the  manliness  of  a  worm-sticker.  But  to  put  a  hook 
into  the  gills  of  a  carp — there  you  attain  the  end  of  a  reasonaW  3 
being  ;  there  you  show  yourself  truly  a  lord  of  the  creation.  T  0 
plant  your  feet  occasionally  in  the  mud,  is  also  a  pleasing  step. 
So  IS  cutting  your  ancles  with  weeds  and  stones — 

Other  joys 
Are  but  toys. 

The  book  of  Isaac  Walton  upon  angling  is  a  delightful  perform- 
ance in  some  respects.  It  smells  of  the  country  air,  and  of  the 
flowers  in  cottage  windows.  Its  pictures  of  rural  scenery,  its 
simplicity,  its  snatches  of  old  songs,  are  all  good  and  refreshing  ; 
and  his  prodigious  relish  of  a  dressed  fish  would  not  be  grudged 
him,  if  he  had  killed  it  a  little  more  decently.  He  really  seems 
to  iiave  a  respect  for  a  piece  of  salmon;  to  approach  it,  like  the 
grace,  with  his  hat  oft".  But  what  are  we  to  think  of  a  man,  who, 
in  the  midst  of  his  tortures  of  other  animals,  is  always  valuing 
himself  on  his  harmlessness  ;  and  who  actually  follows  up  one  of 
his  most  complacent  passages  of  this  kind,  with  an  injunction  to 
impale  a  certain  worm  twice  upon  the  hook,  because  it  is  lively, 
and  might  get  off!  All  that  can  be  said  of  such  an  extraordinary 
inconsistency  is,  that  having  been  bred  up  in  an  opinion  of  the 
innocence  of  his  amusement,  and  possessing  a  healthy  power  of 
exercising  voluntary  thoughts  (as  far  as  he  had  any),  he  must 
have  dozed  over  the  opposite  side  of  the  question,  so  as  to  become 
almost,  perhaps  quite,  insensible  to  it.  And  angling  does,  indeed, 
seem  the  next  thing  to  dreaming.  It  dispenses  with  locomotion, 
reconciles  contradictions,  and  renders  the  very  countenance  null 
and  void.  A  friend  of  ours,  who  u  an  admirer  of  Walton,  was 
struck,  just  as  we  were,  with  the  likeness  of  the  old  angler's  face 
to  a  fish.  It  is  hard,  angular,  and  of  no  expression.  It  seems  to 
have  been  "subdued  to  what  it  worked  in;"  to  have  become 
native  to  the  watery  element.  One  might  have  said  to  Walton, 
"  Oh  !  flesh,  how  art  thou  fishified  !"  He  looks  like  a  pike, 
dressed  in  broadcloth  instead  of  butter. 


10  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xi 

The  face  of  his  pupil  and  follower,  or,  as  he  fondly  called  him- 
self, son,  Charles  Cotton,  a  poet  and  a  man  of  wit,  is  more  good- 
natured  and  uneasy.*  Cotton's  pleasures  had  not  been  confined 
to  fishing.  His  sympathies,  indeed,  had  been  a  little  superabun- 
dant, and  left  him,  perhaps,  not  so  great  a  power  of  thinking  as 
he  pleased.  Accordingly,  we  find  in  his  writings  more  symp- 
toms of  scrupulousness  upon  the  subject  than  in  those  of  his 
father. 

Walton  says,  that  an  angler  does  no  hurt  but  to  fish  ;  and  this 
he  counts  as  nothing.  Cotton  argues,  that  the  slaughter  of 
them  is  not  to  be  "repented;"  and  he  says  to  his  father  (which 
looks  as  if  the  old  gentleman  sometimes  thought  upon  the  sub- 
ject too), 

There  whilst  behind  some  bush  we  wait 

The  scaly  people  to  betray. 
We'll  prove  it  Just,  with  treacherous  bait, 

To  make  the  preying  trout  our  prey. 

This  argument,  and  another  about  fish's  being  made  for  "  man's 
pleasure  and  diet,"  are  all  that  anglers  have  to  say  for  the  inno- 
cence of  their  sport.  But  they  are  both  as  rank  sophistications 
as  can  be  ;  sheer  beggings  of  the  question.  To  kill  fish  outright 
is  a  different  matter.  Death  is  common  to  all ;  and  a  trout, 
speedily  killed  by  a  man,  may  suffer  no  worse  fate  than  from  the 
jaws  of  a  pike.  It  is  the  mode,  the  lingering  cat-like  cruelty  of 
the  angler's  sport,  that  renders  it  unworthy.  If  fish  were  made 
to  be  so  treated,  then  men  were  also  made  to  be  racked  and 
throttled  by  inquisitors.  Indeed,  among  other  advantages  of 
angling,  Cotton  reckons  up  a  tame,  fish-like  acquiescence  to 
whatever  the  powerful  choose  to  inflict. 

We  scratch  not  our  pates, 

Nor  repine  at  the  rates  • 

Our  superiors  impose  on  our  living  : 

But  do  frankly  submit^ 

Knowing  they  have  more  wit 

In  demanding,  than  we  have  in  giving. 

•  The  reader  may  see  both  the  portrait?  in  the  late  editioiis  of  Walton. 


CHAP  XI.]  ANGLING.  41 

Whilst  quiet  we  sit 

We  coi. elude  all  things  fit, 

Acquiescing  with  hearty  submission,  &.c. 

And  this  was  no  pastoral  fiction.  The  anglers  of  those  times, 
whose  skill  became  famous  from  the  celebrity  of  their  names, 
chiefly  in  divinity,  were  great  fallers-in  with  passive  obedience. 
They  seemed  to  think  (whatever  they  found  it  necessary  to  say 
now  and  then  upon  that  point)  that  the  great  had  as  much  right 
to  prey  upon  men,  as  the  small  had  upon  fishes ;  only  the  men, 
luckily,  had  not  hooks  put  into  their  jaws,  and  the  sides  of  their 
cheeks  torn  to  pieces.  The  two  most  famous  anglers  in  history 
are  Antony  and  Cleopatra.  These  extremes  of  the  angling 
character  are  very  edifying. 

We  should  like  to  know  what  these  grave  divines  would  have 
said  to  the  heavenly  maxim  of  "Do  as  you  would  be  done  by." 
Let  us  imagine  ourselves,  for  instance,  a  sort  of  human  fish. 
Air  is  but  a  rarer  fluid  ;  and  at  present,  in  this  November  wea- 
ther, a  supernatural  being  who  should  look  down  upon  us  from  a 
higher  atmosphere,  would  have  some  reason  to  regard  us  as  a 
kind  of  pedestrian  carp.  Now  fancy  a  Genius  fishing  for  us. 
Fancy  him  baiting  a  great  hook  with  pickled  salmon,  and 
twitching  up  old  Isaac  Walton  from  the  banks  of  the  river  Lee, 
with  the  hook  through  his  ear.  How  he  would  go  up,  roaring 
and  screaming,  and  thinking  the  devil  had  got  him ! 

Other  joys 
Are  but  toys. 

We  repeat,  that  if  fish  were  made  to  be  so  treated,  then  we 
were  just  as  much  made  to  be  racked  and  suffocated  ;  and  a  foot- 
pad might  have  argued  that  old  Isaac  was  made  to  have  his  pocket 
picked,  and  be  tumbled  into  the  river.  Thei-e  is  no  end  ot 
these  idle  and  selfish  beggings  of  the  question,  which  at  last 
argue  quite  as  much  against  us  as  for  us.  And  granting 
them,  for  the  sake  of  argument,  it  is  still  obvious,  on  the  very 
same  ground,  that  men  were  also  made  to  be  taught  better. 
We  do  not  say,  that  all  anglers  are  of  a  cruel  nature ;  many 
of  them,  doubtless,  are  amiabk   men  in  other  matters.      They 


42  THE  INDICATOR.  chap,  h 

have  only  never  thought  perhaps  on  that  side  of  the  question, 
or  been  accustomed  from  childhood  to  blink  it.  But  once 
thinking,  their  amiableness  and  their  practice  become  incom- 
patible  ;  and  if  they  should  wish,  on  that  account,  never  to 
have  thought  upon  the  subject,  they  would  only  show,  that 
they  cared  for  their  own  exemption  from  suffering,  and  not  for 
its  diminution  in  general.* 

•  Perhaps  the  best  thing  to  be  said  finally  about  angling  is,  that  not  being 
able  to  determine  whether  fish  feel  it  very  sensibly  or  otherwise,  we  ought 
to  give  them  the  benefit  rather  than  the  disadvantage  of  the  doubt,  where 
we  can  help  it ;  and  our  feelings  the  benefit,  where  we  cannot. 


muAV.  XII.]  LUDICROUS  EXAGGERATION.  43 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Ludicrous  Exaggeration. 

Men  of  wit  sometimes  like  to  pamper  a  joke  into  exaggeration  ; 
into  a  certain  corpulence  of  facetiousness.  Their  relish  of  the 
thing  makes  them  wish  it  as  large  as  possible ;  and  the  enjoy- 
ment of  it  is  doubled  by  its  becoming  more  visible  to  the  eyes  of 
others.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  jests  in  company  are  sometimes 
built  up  by  one  hand  after  another, — "  threepiled  hyperboles," — 
till  the  over-done  Babel  topples  and  tumbles  down  amidst  a  merry 
confusion  of  tongues. 

Falstaff  was  a  great  master  of  this  art :  he  loved  a  joke  as  large 
as  himself;  witness  his  famous  account  of  the  men  in  buckram. 
Thus  he  tells  the  Lord  Chief  Justice,  that  he  had  lost  his  voice 
"  with  singing  of  anthems  ;"  and  he  calls  Bardolph's  red  nose  '*  a 
perpetual  triumph,  an  everlasting  bonfire  light ;"  and  says  it  has 
saved  him  "  a  thousand  marks  in  links  and"  torches,"  walking 
with  it  "  in  the  night,  betwixt  tavern  and  tavern."  See  how  he 
goes  heightening  the  account  of  his  recruits  at  every  step  : — "  You 
would  think  I  had  a  hundred  and  fifty  tattered  prodigals,  lately 
come  from  swine-keeping,  from  eating  draff  and  husks. — A  mad 
fellow  met  me  on  the  way  and  told  me  I  had  unloaded  all  the  gib- 
bets and  pressed  the  dead  bodies — No  eye  hath  seen  such  scare- 
crows.— I'll  not  march  through  Coventry  with  them,  that's  flat. — 
Nay,  and  the  villains  march  wide  betwixt  the  legs,  as  if  they 
had  gyves  on ;  for  indeed  I  had  most  of  them  out  of  prison. — 
There's  but  a  shirt  and  a-half  in  all  my  company  ; — and  the  half 
shirt  is  two  napkins,  tacked  together,  and  thrown  over  the  shoul- 
ders like  a  herald's  coat  without  sleeves." 

An  old  schoolfellow  of  ours  (who,  by  the  way,  was  more  fond  of 
quoting  Falstaff  than  any  other  of  Shakspoare's  characters)  used 
to  be  called  upon  for  a  story,  with  a  view  to  a  joke  of  this  sort ;   ii 

5 


41  THE  INDICATOR  [chap  sn 

being  an  understood  thing  that  he  had  a  privilege  of  exaggeration, 
wit'  out  committing  his  abstract  love  of  truth.     The  reader  knows 
the  :ld  blunder  attributed  to  Goldsmith  about  a  dish  of  green  peas. 
Somebody  had  been  applauded  in  company  for  advising  his  cook 
to  take  some  ill-dressed  peas  to  Hammersmith,  "  because  that  was 
the  way  to  Turn'em  Green;"  upon  which  Goldsmith  is  said  to 
have  gone  and  repeated  the  pun  at  another  table  in  this  fashion  : 
*'  John  should  take  those  peas,  I  think,  to  Hammersmith."    "Why 
so,  Doctor?"     "Because  that  is  the  way  to  make  'em  green." 
Now  our  friend  would  give  the  blunder  with  this  sort  of  additional 
dressing  :     "  At  sight  of  the  dishes  of  vegetables,  Goldsmith,  who 
was  at  his  own  house,  took  off  the  covers,  one  after  another, 
with  great  anxiety,  till  he  found  that  peas  were  among  them  ; 
upon  which  he  rubbed  his  hands  with  an  air  of  infinite  and  pro- 
spective  satisfaction.     'You  are  fond  of  peas,  Sir  V  said  one  of 
the  company.     '  Yes,  Sir,'  said  Goldsmith,  '  particularly  so : — I 
eat  them  all  the   year  round  ;— I   mean.  Sir,  every  day  in  the 
season.     1  do  not  think  there  is  anybody  so  fond  of  peas  as  I 
am.'     '  Is  there  any  particular  reason.  Doctor,'  asked  a  gentle- 
man present,  '  why  you  like  peas  so  much,  beyond  the  usual  one 
of  their  agreeable  taste?' — 'No,  Sir,  none  whatsoever: — none, 
I  assure  you'  (here  Goldsmith  showed  a  great  wish  to  impress 
this  fact  on  his  guests)  :  '  I  never  heard  any  particular  encomium 
or  speech  about  them  from  any  one  else  :  but  they  carry  tlieir 
own  eloquence  with  them  :    they   are  things,  Sir,   of  infinite 
taste.'     (Here  a  laugh,  which  put  Goldsmith  in  additional  spir- 
its.)    '  But,  bless  me !'  he  exclaimed,  looking  narrowly  into  tlie 
peas  : — '  I  fear  they  are  very  ill-done  :  they  are  absolutely  yel- 
low instead  o^  green'  (here  he  put  a  strong  emphasis  on  green) ; 
'  and  you  know,  peas  should  be  emphatically  green  : — green- 
ness  in   a  pea  is  a  quality  as  essential   as  whiteness  in  a  lily. 
The  cook  has  quite  spoilt  them: — but  I'll  give  the  rogue  a  lee 
ture,  gentlemen,  with  your  permission.'     Goldsmith  then  rose 
and   rang  the  bell   violently  for  the  cook,  who  came  in  ready 
booted  and  spurred.     'Ha!'  exclaimed  Goldsmith,  ' those  boots 
and   spurs  are  your  salvation,  you  knave.     Do  you  know.  Sir, 
what  you  have  done  ?'— '  No,  Sir.'—'  Why,  you  have  made  the 
peas   yellow,   Sir.      Go   ins^ently,   and  take   'em   to  Hammer- 


CHAP.  XII.]  LUDICROUS  EXAUGERATICN.  ii 

smith.'  'To  Hammersmith,  Sir?'  cried  the  man,  all  in  aston- 
ishment, the  guests  being  no  less  so  : — 'please,  Sir,  why  am  I  to 
take  'em  to  Hammersmith?' — 'Because,  Sir,'  (and  here  Gold- 
smith looked  round  with  triumphant  anticipation)  '  that  is  the 
way  to  render  those  peas  green.'  " 

There  is  a  very  humorous  piece  of  exaggeration  in  Butler's 
Remains, — a  collection,  by  the  bye,  well  worthy  of  Hudibras, 
and  indeed  of  more  interest  to  the  general  reader.  Butler  is 
defrauded  of  his  fame  with  readers  of  taste  who  happen  to  be 
no  politicians,  when  Hudibras  is  printed  without  this  appendage. 
The  piece  we  allude  to  is  a  short  description  of  Holland : 

A  country  that  draws  fifty  foot  of  water. 
In  which  men  live  as  in  the  hold  of  nature ; 
And  when  the  sea  does  in  upon  them  break, 
And  drowns  a  province,  does  but  spring  a  leak 

That  feed,  like  cannibals,  on  other  fishes. 
And  serve  their  cousin-germans  up  in  dishes. 
A  land  that  rides  at  anchor,  and  is  moored, 
In  which  they  do  not  live,  but  go  aboard. 

We  do  not  know,  and  perhaps  it  would  be  impossible  to  dis- 
cover, whether  Butler  wrote  his  minor  pieces  before  those  of  the 
great  patriot  Andrew  Marvell,  who  rivalled  him  in  wit  and 
excelled  him  in  poetry.  Marvell,  though  born  later,  seems  to 
have  been  known  earlier  as  an  author.  He  was  certainly  known 
publicly  before  him.  But  in  the  political  poems  of  Marvell  there 
is  a  ludicrous  character  of  Holland,  which  might  be  pronounced 
to  be  either  the  copy  or  the  original  of  Butler's,  if  in  those  anti- 
Batavian  times  the  Hollander  had  not  been  baited  by  all  the 
wits ;  and  were  it  not  probable  that  the  unwieldy  monotony  ot 
his  character  gave  rise  to  much  the  same  ludicrous  imagery  in 
many  of  their  fancies.  Marvell's  wit  has  the  advantage  of  But- 
ler's, not  in  learning  or  multiplicity  of  contrasts  (for  nobody  evei 
beat  him  there),  but  in  a  greater  variety  of  them,  and  in  being 
able,  from  the  more  poetical  turn  of  his  mind,  to  bring  graver 
and  more  imaginative  things  to  wait  upon  his  levity. 

He  thus  opens  the  battery  upon  our  amphibious  neighbor: 


46  THE  INDICATOR  [chap  xii 

Holland,  that  scarce  deserves  the  name  of  land, 
As  but  the  off-scouring  of  the  British  sand  ; 
And  so  much  earth  as  was  contributed 
By  English  pilots,  when  they  heaved  the  lead ; 
Or  what  by  the  ocean's  slow  alluvion  fell. 
Of  shipwrecked  cockle  and  the  muscle-shell. 
^:  :f  *  *  *  *  * 

Glad  then,  as  miners  who  have  found  the  ore, 
They,  with  mad  labor,*  fished  the  land  to  shore ; 
And  dived  as  desperately  for  each  piece 
Of  earth,  as  if  it  had  been  of  ambergreece  ; 
Collecting  anxiously  small  loads  of  clay. 
Less  than  what  building  swallows  bear  away  ; 
Or  than  those  pills  which  sordid  beetles  rowl, 
Transfusing  into  them  their  dunghill  soul. 

He  goes  on  in  a  strain  of  exquisite  hyperbole  : — 

How  did  they  rivet  with  gigantic  piles 

Thorough  the  centre  their  new-catched  miles  ; 

And  to  the  stake  a  struggling  country  bound, 

Where  barking  waves  still  bait  the  forced  ground; 

Building  their  wat'ry  Babel  far  more  high 

To  catch  the  waves,  than  those  to  scale  the  sky. 

Yet  still  his  claim  the  injured  ocean  layed. 

And  oft  at  leap-frog  o'er  their  steeples  played; 

As  if  on  purpose  it  on  land  had  come 

To  show  them  what's  their  Mare  Liberumf; 

A  dayly  deluge  over  them  does  boil ; 

The  earth  and  water  play  at  level-coyl ; 

The  fish  oft-times  the  burgher  dispossessed. 

And  sat,  not  as  a  meat,  but  as  a  guest : 

And  oft  the  Tritons,  and  the  Sea-nymphs,  saw 

Whole  shoals  of  Dutch  served  up  forcabillau. 

Or,  as  they  over  the  new  level  ranged. 

For  pickled  herrings,  pickled  Heeren  changed. 

Nature,  it  seemed,  ashamed  of  her  mistake. 

Would  throw  their  land  away  at  duck  and  drake ; 

Therefore  necessity,  that  first  made  kings. 

Something  like  government  among  them  brings ; 

•  Dryden  afterwards,  of  fighting  for  gain,  in  his  song  of  Come 
dare — 

"  Tne  Gods  from  above  the  mad  labor  behold." 

♦  A  Free  Ocean 


CHAi    -sii.]  LUDICROUS  EXAGGERATION.       "  4' 

For  as  with  Pigmys,  who  best  kills  the  crane, 
Among  the  hungry  he  that  treasures  grain, 
Among  the  blind  the  one-eyed  blinkard  reigns. 
So  rules  among  the  drowned  he  that  drains. 
Not  who  first  sees  the  rising  sun,  commands ; 
But  who  could  first  discern  the  rising  lands; 
Who  best  could  know  to  pump  an  earth  so  leak, 
Him  they  their  lord  and  country's  father  speak ; 
To  make  a  bank  was  a  great  plot  of  state ; — 
Invent  a  shovel,  and  be  a  magistrate. 

We  can  never  read  these  and  some  other  ludicrous  verses  of 
Marvell,  even  when  by  ourselves,  without  laughter. 


5* 


43  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xni 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

Gilbert!  Gilbert! 

The  sole  idea  generally  conveyed  to  us  by  historians  of  Thomas 
a  Becket  is  that  of  a  haughty  priest,  who  tried  to  elevate  the 
religious  power  above  the  civil.  But  in  looking  more  narrowly 
into  the  accounts  of  him,  it  appears  that  for  a  considerable  part 
of  his  life  he  was  a  merry  layman,  was  a  great  falconer,  feaster, 
and  patron,  as  well  as  man  of  business ;  and  he  wore  all  cha- 
racters with  such  unaffected  pleasantness,  that  he  was  called  *he 
Delight  of  the  Western  World. 

On  a  sudden,  to  everybody's  surprise,  his  friend  the  king 
(Henry  II.),  from  chancellor  made  him  archbishop;  and  with 
equal  suddenness,  though  retaining  his  affability,  the  new  head 
of  the  English  church  put  off  all  his  worldly  graces  and  plea- 
sures (save  and  except  a  rich  gown  over  his  sackcloth,  and  in 
the  midst  of  a  gay  court,  became  the  most  mortified  of  ascetics. 
Instead  of  hunting  and  hawking,  he  paced  a  solitary  cloister  ; 
instead  of  his  wine,  he  drank  fennel-water ;  and  in  lieu  of  soft 
clothing,  he  indulged  his  back  in  stripes. 

This  phenomenon  has  divided  the  opinions  of  the  moral  critics. 
Some  insist  that  Becket  was  religiously  in  earnest,  and  think  the 
change  natural  to  a  man  of  the  world,  whose  heart  had  been 
struck  with  reflection.  Others  see  in  his  conduct  nothing  but 
ambition.  We  suspect  that  three  parts  of  the  truth  are  with  the 
latter ;  and  that  Becket,  suddenly  enabled  to  dispute  a  kind  of 
sovereignty  with  his  prince  and  friend,  gave  way  to  the  new 
temptation,  just  as  he  had  done  to  his  falconry  and  fine  living. 
But  the  complete  alteration  of  his  way  of  life, — the  enthusiasm 
which  enabled  him  to  set  up  so  different  a  greatness  against  his 
former  one — shows  that  his  character  partook  at  least  of  as  much 
sincerity  as  would  enable  him  to  delude  himself  in  good  taste. 


CHAP,  xui.]  GILBERT     GILBERT !  49 

In  proportion  as  his  very  egotism  was  concerned,  it  was  likely 
that  such  a  man  would  exalt  the  gravity  and  importance  of  his 
new  calling.  He  had  flourished  at  an  earthly  court :  he  now 
wished  to  be  as  great  a  man  in  the  eyes  of  another  ;  and  worldly 
power,  which  was  at  once  to  be  enjoyed  and  despised  by  virtue 
of  his  office,  had  a  zest  given  to  its  possession,  of  which  the 
incredulousness  of  mere  insincerity  could  know  nothing. 

Thomas  a  Becket  may  have  inherited  a  romantic  turn  of  mind 
from  his  mother,  whose  story  is  a  singular  one.  His  father,  Gil- 
bert Becket,  a  flourishing  citizen,  had  been  in  his  youth  a  soldier 
in  the  crusades ;  and  being  taken  prisoner,  became  slave  to  an 
Emir,  or  Saracen  prince.  By  degrees  he  obtained  the  confidence 
of  his  master,  and  was  admitted  to  his  company,  where  he  met  a 
personage  who  became  more  attached  to  him.  This  was  the 
Emir's  daughter.  Whether  by  her  means  or  not  does  not  appear 
but  after  some  time  he  contrived  to  escape.  The  lady  with  her 
loving  heart  followed  him.  She  knew,  they  say,  but  two  words 
of  his  language, — London  and  Gilbert ;  and  by  repeating  the  form- 
er she  obtained  a  passage  in  a  vessel,  arrived  in  England,  and  found 
her  trusting  way  to  the  metropolis.  She  then  took  to  her  other 
talisman,  and  went  from  street  to  street  pronouncing  "  Gilbert !" 
A  crowd  collected  about  her  wherever  she  went,  asking  of  course 
a  thousand  questions,  and  to  all  she  had  but  one  answer — Gilbert ! 
Gilbert ! — She  found  her  faith  in  it  sufficient.  Chance,  or  her 
determination  to  go  through  every  street,  brought  her  at  last  to 
the  one  in  which  he  who  had  won  her  heart  in  slavery,  was  living 
in  good  condition.  The  crowd  drew  the  family  to  the  window; 
his  servant  recognized  her  ;  ard  Gilbert  Becket  took  to  his  arms 
and  his  bridal  bed,  his  far-corn 3  princess,  with  her  solitary  fond 
word. 


00  THE  INDU  ATOR.  [chap.  xiv. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Fatal  Mistake  of  Nervous  Disorders  for  Madness. 

Some  affecting  catastrophes  in  the  public  papers  induce  us  to  say 
a  few  words  on  the  mistaken  notions  which  are  so  often,  in  our 
opinion,  the  cause  of  their  appearance.  It  is  much  to  be  wished 
that  some  physician,  truly  so  called,  and  philosophically  compe- 
tejit  to  the  task,  would  write  a  work  on  this  subject.  We  have 
plenty  of  books  on  symptoms  and  other  alarming  matters,  very 
useful  for  increasing  the  harm  already  existing.  We  believe 
also  there  are  some  works  of  a  different  kind,  if  not  written  in 
direct  counteraction  ;  but  the  learned  authors  are  apt  to  be  so 
grand  and  etymological  in  their  title-pages,  that  they  must 
frighten  the  general  understanding  with  their  very  advertise- 
ments. 

There  is  this  great  difference  between  what  is  generally  under- 
stood by  the  word  madness,  and  the  nervous  or  melancholy  dis- 
orders, the  excess  of  which  is  so  often  confounded  with  it.  Mad- 
ness is  a  consequence  of  malformation  of  the  brain,  and  is  by 
no  means  of  necessity  attended  with  melancholy  or  even  ill- 
health.  The  patient,  in  the  very  mi-dst  of  it,  is  often  strong, 
healthy  and  even  cheerful.  On  the  other  hand,  nervous  disor- 
ders, or  even  melancholy  in  its  most  aggravated  state,  is  nothing 
but  the  excess  of  a  state  of  stomach  and  blood,  extremely  com- 
mon. The  mind  no  doubt  will  act  upon  that  state  and  exas- 
perate it ;  but  there  is  great  re-action  between  mind  and  body ; 
and  as  it  is  a  common  thing  for  a  man  in  an  ordinary  fever,  or 
fit  of  the  bile,  to  be  melancholy,  and  even  to  do  or  feel  inclined 
to  do  an  extravagant  thing,  so  it  is  as  common  for  him  to  get 
well  and  be  quite  cheerful  again.  Thus  it  is  among  witless  peo- 
ple that  the  true  madness  will  be  found.  It  is  the  more  intelli- 
gent that  are  subject  to  the  other  disorders  ;  and  a  proper  use 
of  their  intelligence  will  show  them  what  the  disorders  are. 


CHAP.  XIV.]  NERVOUS  DISORDERS  51 

But  weak  treatment  may  frighten  the  intelligent.  A  kind  per- 
son, for  instance,  in  a  fit  of  melancholy,  may  confess  that  he 
feels  an  inclination  to  do  some  desperate  or  even  cruel  thing. 
This  is  often  treated  at  once  as  madness,  instead  of  an  excess  of 
the  kind  just  mentioned  ;  and  the  person  seeing  he  is  thought 
out  of  his  wits,  begins  to  think  himself  so,  and  at  last  acts  as  if  he 
were.  This  is  a  lamentable  evil ;  but  it  does  not  stop  here. 
The  children  or  other  relatives  of  the  person  may  become  vic- 
tims to  the  mistake.  They  think  there  is  madness,  as  the  phrase 
is,  "in  the  family;"  and  so  whenever  they  feel  ill,  or  meet  Avith 
a  misfortune,  the  thought  will  prey  upon  their  minds ;  and  this 
may  lead  to  catastrophes,  with  which  they  have  really  no  more 
to  do  than  any  other  sick  or  unfortunate  people.  How  many 
persons  have  committed  an  extravagance  in  a  brain  fever,  or 
undergone  hallucinations  of  mind  in  consequence  of  getting  an 
ague,  or  taking  opium,  or  fifty  other  causes ;  and  yet  the  mo- 
ment the  least  wandering  of  mind  is  observed  in  them,  others 
become  frightened  ;  their  fright  is  manifested  beyond  all  neces- 
sity ;  and  the  patients  and  their  family  must  suffer  for  it.  They 
seem  to  think  that  no  disorder  can  properly  be  held  a  true  Chris- 
tian sickness,  and  fit  for  charitable  interpretation,  but  where  the 
patient  has  gone  regularly  to  bed,  and  had  curtains,  and  caudle- 
cups,  and  nurses  abou^  him,  like  a  well-behaved  respectable  sick 
gentleman.  But  this  state  of  things  implies  muscular  weakness, 
or  weakness  of  that  sort  which  renders  the  bodily  action  feeble. 
Now,  in  nervous  disorders,  the  muscular  action  may  be  as  strong 
as  ever ;  and  people  may  reasonably  be  allowed  a  world  of  ill- 
ness, sitting  in  their  chairs,  or  even  walking  or  running. 

These  mistaken  pronouncers  upon  disease  ought  to  be  told, 
that  when  they  are  thus  unwarrantably  frightened,  they  are 
partaking  of  the  very  essence  of  what  they  misapprehend  ; 
for  it  is  fear,  in  all  its  various  degrees  and  modifications,  which 
is  at  the  bottom  of  nervousness  and  melancholy ;  not  fear  in  its 
ordinary  sense,  as  opposed  to  cowardice  (for  a  man  who  would 
simdder  at  a  bat  or  a  vague  idea,  may  be  bold  as  a  lion  against 
an  enemy),  but  imaginative  fear  ;  fear  either  of  sontething  known 
or  of  the  patient  knows  not  what ; — a  vague  sense  of  terror,^ 
an  impulse, — an  apprehension  of  ill, — dwelling  upon  some  pain- 


52  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  siv. 

ful  and  worrying  thought.  Now  this  suffering  is  invariably  con 
nected  with  a  weak  state  of  the  body  in  some  respects,  particu- 
larly of  the  stomach.  Hundreds  will  be  found  to  have  felt  it,  if 
patients  inquire ;  but  the  mind  is  sometimes  afraid  of  acknow- 
ledging its  apprehensions,  even  to  itself;  and  thus  fear  broods 
over  and  hatches  fear. 

These  disorders,  generally  speaking,  are  greater  or  less  in 
their  effects  according  to  the  exercise  of  reason.  But  do  not  let 
the  word  be  misunderstood  :  we  should  rather  say,  according  to  the 
extent  of  the  knowledge.  A  very  imaginative  man  will  indeed 
be  likely  to  suffer  more  than  others ;  but  if  his  knowledge  is  at 
all  in  proportion,  he  will  also  get  through  his  evil  better  than  an 
uninformed  man  suffering  great  terrors.  And  the  reason  is,  that 
he  knows  how  much  bodily  unhealthiness  has  to  do  with  it.  The 
very  words  that  frighten  the  unknowing  might  teach  them  better, 
if  understood.  Thus  insanity  itself  properly  means  nothing  but 
unhealthiness  or  unsoundness.  Derangement  explains  itself,  and 
may  surely  mean  very  harmless  things.  Melancholy  is  com- 
pounded of  two  words  which  signify  black  bile.  Hypochondria 
is  the  name  of  one  of  the  regions  of  the  stomach,  a  very  instruc- 
tive etymology.  And  lunacy  refers  to  effects,  real  or  imaginary, 
of  particular  states  of  the  moon  ;  which  if  anything  after  all, 
are  nothing  more  than  what  every  delicate  constitution  feels  in 
its  degree  from  particular  states  of  the  weather ;  for  weather, 
like  the  tides,  is  apt  to  be  in  such  and  such  a  condition,  when 
the  moon  presents  such  and  such  a  face. 

It  has  been  said, 

Great  wits  to  madness  nearly  are  allied 

It  is  curious  that  he  who  wrote  the  saying  (Dryden)  was  a 
very  sound  wit  to  the  end  of  his  life ;  while  his  wife,  who  was 
of  a  weak  understanding,  became  insane.  An  excellent  writer 
(Wordsworth)  has  written  an  idle  couplet  about  the  insanity  of 
poets : 

We  poets  enter  vn  our  path  with  gladness, 

But  thereof  comes  in  the  end  despondency  and  madness. 


CHAP.  XIV.]  NERVOUS  DISORDERS.  53 

If  he  did  not  mean  madness  in  the  ordinary  sense,  he  should  not 
have  written  this  line  ;  if  he  did,  he  ought  not  to  have  fallen, 
in  the  teeth  of  his  better  knowledge,  into  so  vulgar  an  error. 
There  are  very  few  instances  of  insane  poets,  or  of  insane  great 
understandings  of  any  sort.  Bacon,  Milton,  Newton,  Snaks- 
peare,  Cervantes,  &c.,  were  all  of  minds  as  sound  as  they  were 
great.  So  it  has  been  with  the  infinite  majority  of  literary  men 
of  all  countries.  If  Tasso  and  a  few  others  were  exceptions, 
they  were  but  exceptions ;  and  the  derangement  in  these  eminent 
men  has  very  doubtful  characters  about  it,  and  is  sometimes 
made  a  question.  It  may  be  pretty  safely  affirmed,  at  least, 
upon  an  examination  of  it,  that  had  they  not  been  the  clever  men 
they  were,  it  would  have  been  much  worse  and  less  equivocal. 
Collins,  whose  case  was  after  all  one  of  inanition  rather  than 
insanity,  had  been  a  free  liver  ;  and  seems  to  have  been  hurt  by 
having  a  fortune  left  him,  Cowper  was  weak-bodied,  and  beset 
by  Methodists.  Swift's  body  was  full  of  bad  humors.  He  him- 
self attributed  his  disordered  system  to  the  effects  of  a  surfeit  of 
fruit  on  his  stomach  ;  and  in  his  last  illness  he  used  to  break  out 
in  enormous  boils  and  blisters.  This  was  a  violent  effort  of 
nature  to  help  and  purify  the  current  of  his  blood, — the  main 
object  in  all  such  cases.  Dr.  Johnson,  who  was  subject  to  mists 
of  melancholy,  used  to  fancy  he  should  go  mad ;  but  he  nevei 
did. 

Exercise,  conversation,  cheerful  society,  amusements  of  all 
sorts,  or  a  kind,  patient,  and  gradual  helping  of  the  bodily  health, 
till  the  mind  be  capable  of  amusement  (for  it  should  never  fool- 
ishly  be  told  ".not  to  think "  of  melancholy  things,  without 
having  something  done  for  it  to  mend  the  bodily  health), — these 
are  the  cures,  the  only  cures,  and  in  our  opinion  the  almost 
infallible  cures.of  nervous  disorders,  however  excessive.  Above 
all  Ihe  patient  should  be  told  that  there  has  often  been  an  end  to 
that  torment  of  one  haunting  idea,  which  is  indeed  a  great  and 
venerable  suffering.  Many  persons  have  got  over  it  in  a  week, 
a  few  weeks,  or  a  month,  some  in  a  few  months,  some  not  fof 
years,  but  they  have  got  over  it  at  last.  There  is  a  remarkable 
instance  of  this  in  the  life  of  our  great  king  Alfred.  He  was 
seized,  says  his  contemporary  biographer,  with  such  a  strange 


M  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  xiT. 

illness  while  sitting  at  table,  in  the  twenty-fifth  year  (we  think) 
of  his  age,  that  he  shrieked  aloud ;  and  for  twenty  years  after- 
wards  this  illness  so  preyed  upon  him,  that  the  relief  of  one 
hour  was  embittered  by  what  he  dreaded  would  come  the  next. 
His  disorder  is  conjectured  by  some  to  have  been  an  internal  can- 
cer ;  by  others,  with  more  probability,  the  black  bile,  or  melan- 
choly. The  physicians  of  those  times  knew  nothing  about  it ; 
and  the  people  showed  at  once  their  ignorance,  and  their  admi- 
ration  of  the  king,  by  saying  that  the  devil  had  caused  it  out  of 
jealousy.  It  was  probably  produced  by  anxiety  for  the  state  of 
his  country ;  but  the  same  thing  which  wounded  him  may  have 
helped  to  keep  him  up ;  for  he  had  plenty  of  business  to  attend 
to,  and  fought  with  his  own  hand  in  fifty-six  pitched  battles. 
Now  exactly  twenty  years  after,  in  the  forty-fifth  year  of  his 
age  (if  our  former  recollection  is  right)  this  disorder  totally  left 
him ;  and  his  great  heart  was  where  it  ought  to  be,  in  a  heaven 
of  health  and  calmness. 


SHAP.  XV.]  MISTS  AND  FOGS  55 


CHAPTER  XV. 

-r 

Mists  and  Fogs. 

Fogs  and  mists,  being  nothing  but  vapors  which  the  cold  air  will 
not  suffer  to  evaporate,  must  sometimes  present  a  gorgeous 
aspect  next  the  sun.  To  the  eye  of  an  eagle,  or  whatever  other 
eyes  there  may  be  to  look  down  upon  them,  they  may  appear 
like  masses  of  cloudy  gold.  In  fact,  they  are  but  clouds  un- 
risen.  The  city  of  London,  at  the  time  we  are  writing  this 
article,  is  literally  a  city  in  the  clouds.  Its  inhabitants  walk 
through  the  same  airy  heaps  which  at  other  times  float  over  their 
heads  in  the  sky,  or  minister  with  glorious  faces  to  the  setting 
sun. 

We  do  not  say,  that  any  one  can  "  hold  a  fire  in  his  hand"  by 
thinking  on  a  fine  sunset ;  or  that  sheer  imagination  of  any  sort 
can  make  it  a  very  agreeable  thing  to  feel  as  if  one's  body  were 
wrapped  round  with  cold  wet  paper ;  much  less  to  flounder 
through  gutters,  or  run  against  posts.  But  the  mind  can  often 
help  itself  with  agreeable  images  against  disagreeable  ones;  or 
pitch  itself  round  to  the  best  sides  and  aspects  of  them.  The 
solid  and  fiery  ball  of  the  sun,  stuck  as  it  were,  in  the  thick 
foggy  atmosphere  ;  the  moon  just  winning  her  way  through  it, 
into  beams  ;  nay.  the  very  candles  and  gas-lights  in  the  shop- 
windows  of  a  misty  evening — all  have,  in  our  eyes,  their  agree- 
able varieties  of  contrast  to  the  surrounding  haze.  We  have 
even  halted,  of  a  dreary  autumnal  evening,  at  that  open  part  of 
the  Strand  by  St.  Clement's,  and  seen  the  church,  which  is  a 
poor  structure  of  itself,  take  an  aspect  of  ghastly  grandeur  from 
the  dark  atmosphere;  looking  like  a  tall  white  mass,  mounting 
up  interminably  into  the  night  overhead. 

The  poets,  who  are  the  comrnon  friends  that  keep  up  the  inter- 
course  between  nature   and  humanity,  have  in  numberless  pas. 

6 


Se  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xt 

sages  done  justice  to  these  our  melancholy  visitors,  and  shown 
us  what  grand  personages  they  are.  To  mention  only  a  few  of 
the  most  striking.  When  Thetis,  in  the  Iliad  (Lib.  i.,  v.  359), 
rises  out  of  the  sea  to  console  Achilles,  she  issues  forth  in  a  mist ; 
like  the  Genius  in  the  Arabian  Nights.  The  reader  is  to  sup- 
pose that  the  mist,  after  ascending,  comes glidiiM^over the  water, 
and  condensing  itself  into  a  human  shape,  lands  the  white-footed 
goddess  on  the  shore. 

When  Achilles,  after  his  long  and  vindictive  absence  from  the 
Greek  armies,  re-appears  in  consequence  of  the  death  of  his 
friend  Patroclus,  and  stands  before  the  appalled  Trojan  armies, 
who  are  thrown  into  confusion  at  the  very  sight,  Minerva,  to  ren- 
der his  aspect  the  more  astonishing  and  awful,  puts  about  his 
head  a  halo  of  golden  mist,  streaming  upwards  with  fire  (Lib. 
xviii.,  V.  205).  He  shouts  aloud  under  this  preternatural  dia- 
dem ;  Minerva  throws  into  his  shout  her  own  immortal  voice  with 
a  strange  unnatural  cry  ;  at  which  the  horses  of  the  Trojan  war- 
riors run  round  with  their  chariots,  and  twelve  of  their  noblest 
captains  perish  in  the  crush. 

A  mist  was  the  usual  clothing  of  the  gods,  when  they  descended 
to  earth  ;  especially  of  Apollo,  whose  brightness  had  double  need 
of  mitigation.  Homer,  to  heighten  the  dignity  of  Ulysses,  has 
finely  given  him  the  same  covering,  when  he  passes  through  the 
court  of  Antincus,  and  suddenly  appears  before  the  throne. 
This  has  been  turned  to  happy  account  by  Virgil,  and  to  a  new 
and  noble  one  by  Milton.  Virgil  makes  ^neas  issue  suddenly 
from  a  mist,  at  the  moment  when  his  friends  think  him  lost,  and 
the  beautiful  queen  of  Carthage  is  wishing  his  presence.  Mil- 
ton— but  we  will  give  one  or  two  of  his  minor  uses  of  mists,  by 
way  of  making  a  climax  of  the  one  alluded  to.  If  Satan,  for 
instance,  goes  lurking  about  Paradise,  it  is  "  like  a  black  mist 
low  creeping."  If  the  angels  on  guard  glide  about  it,  upon 
I  heir  gentler  errand,  it  is  like  fairer  vapors  : 

On  the  ground 
Gliding  meteorous,  as  evening  mist 
Risen  from  a  river  o'er  the  marish  glides, 
And  gathers  ground  fast  at  the  laborer's  heel 
Honrieward  returning. — {Par.  Lost,  B.  xii.,v.  628.) 


CHAP.  XV.]  MISTS  AND  FOGS.  f)7 

Now  behold  one  of  his  greatest  imaginations.  The  fallen 
demi-gods  are  assembled  in  Pandsemonium,  waiting  the  return 
of  their  "great  adventure"  from  his  "search  of  worlds:" 

He  through  the  midst  unmarked, 
In  show  plebeian  angel  militant 
Of  lowest  order,  passed ;  and  from  the  door 
Of  that  Plutonian  hall,  invisible, 
Ascended  his  high  throne  ;  which,  under  state 
Of  richest  texture  spread,  at  the  upper  end 
Was  placed  in  regal  lustre.     Down  awhile 
He  sat,  and  round  about  him  saw  unseen. 
At  last — as  from  a  cloud,  his  fulgent  head 
And  shape  star-bright  appeared,  or  brighter ;  clad 
With  what  permissive  glory  since  his  fall 
Was  left  him,  or  false  glitter.     All  amazed 
At  that  so  sudden  blaze,  the  Stygian  throng 
Bent  their  aspect ;  and  whom  they  wished,  beheld, 
Their  mighty  chief  returned. 

There  is  a  piece  of  imagination  in  Apollonius  Rhodius  worthy 
of  Milton  or  Homer.  The  Argonauts,  in  broad  day-light,  are 
suddenly  benighted  at  sea  with  a  black  fog.  They  pray  to 
Apollo  ;  and  he  descends  from  heaven,  and  lighting  on  a  rock, 
holds  up  his  illustrious  bow,  which  shoots  a  guiding  light  for  them 
to  an  island. 

Spenser,  in  a  most  romantic  chapter  of  the  Faery  Queene 
(Book  ii.),  seems  to  have  taken  the  idea  of  a  benighting  from 
Apollonius,  as  well  as  to  have  had  an  eye  to  some  passages  of 
the  Odyssey ;  but,  like  all  great  poets,  what  he  borrows  only 
brings  worthy  companionship  to  some  fine  invention  of  his  own. 
It  is  a  scene  thickly  beset  with  horror.  Sir  Guyon,  in  the  course 
of  his  voyage  through  the  perilous  sea,  wishes  to  stop  and  hear 
the  Syrens ;  but  the  palmer,  his  companion,  dissuades  him : 

When  sScldeinly  a  grosse  fog  overspred 
With  his  dull  vapor  all  that  desert  has. 
And  heaven's  chearefuU  face  enveloped. 
That  all  things  one,  and  one  as  nothing  was. 
And  this  great  universe  seemed  one  confused  r.  ass. 

Thereat  they  greatly  were  dismayd,  ne  wist 
How  to  direct  theyr  way  in  darkness  wide. 


68  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xt 

But  feared  to  wander  in  that  wastefull  mist 
For  tombling  into  mischiefe  unespyde : 
Worse  is  the  daunger  hidden  then  descride. 
Suddeinly  an  innumerable  flight 
Of  harmful!  fowles  about  them  fluttering  cride, 
And  with  theyr  wicked  wings  them  oft  did  smighl 
And  sore  annoyed,  groping  in  that  griesly  night. 

Even  all  the  nation  of  unfortunate 
And  fatall  birds  about  them  flocked  were. 
Such  as  by  nature  men  abhorre  and  hate. 
The  ill-faced  owle,  deaths  dreadful  messengere . 
The  hoarse  night-raven,  trump  of  doleful!  drere  : 
The  lether-winged  batt,  dayes  enimy  : 
The  rueful!  stritch,  still  waiting  on  the  here  : 
The  whistler  shrill,  that  whoso  lieares  doth  dy  : 
The  hellish  harpies,  prophets  of  sad  destiny ; 

All  these,  and  all  that  else  does  horror  breed. 
About  them  flew,  and  fild  their  sayles  with  fear ; 
Yet  stayd  they  not,  but  forward  did  proceed. 
Whiles  th'  one  did  row,  and  th'  other  stifly  steare. 

Ovid  has  turned  a  mist  to  his  usual  account.  It  is  where 
Jupiter,  to  conceal  his  amour  with  lo,  throws  a  cloud  over  the 
vale  of  Tempe.  There  is  a  picture  of  Jupiter  and  To,  by  Cor- 
reggio,  in  which  that  great  artist  has  finely  availed  himself  of  the 
circumstance  ;  the  head  of  the  father  of  gods  and  men  coming 
placidly  out  of  the  cloud,  upon  the  young  lips  of  lo,  like  the  very 
benignity  of  creation. 

The  poet  who  is  the  most  conversant  with  mists  is  Ossian,  who 
was  a  native  of  the  north  of  Scotland  or  Ireland.  The  following 
are  as  many  specimens  of  his  uses  of  mist  as  we  have  room  for. 
The  first  is  very  grand  ;  the  second  as  happy  in  its  analogy  ;  the 
third  is  ghastly,  but  of  more  doubtful  merit : 

Two  Chiefs  parted  by  their  King. — They  sunk  from  the  king  on  either 
side,  like  two  columns  of  morning  mist,  when  the  sun  rises  between  tliem 
on  his  glittering  rocks  Dark  is  their  rolling  on  either  side,  each  towards 
its  reedy  pool. 

A  great  Enemy  — I  love  a  foe  like  Cathmor  :  his  soul  is  great ;  his  arm 
is  strong  ;  his  battles  are  full  of  fame.     But  the  little  soul  is  like  a  vapor 


CHAP.  XV.]  MISTS  AND  FOGS.  (.3 

that  hovers  round  the  marshy  lake.    It  never  rises  on  the  green  hill,  lest  the 
wind.s  meet  it  there. 

A  terrible  Omen. — A  mist  rose  slowly  from  the  lake.  It  came,  in  the 
figure  of  an  a^ed  man,  along  the  silent  plain.  Its  large  limbs  did  not  move 
in  steps  ;  for  a  ghost  supported  it  in  mid  air.  It  came  towards  Selma's  hall, 
and  dissolved  in  a  shower  of  blood. 

We  must  mention  another  instance  of  the  poetical  use  of  a 
mist,  if  it  is  only  to  indulge  ourselves  in  one  of  those  masterly- 
passages  of  Dante,  in  which  he  contrives  to  unite  minuteness  of 
detail  with  the  most  grand  and  sovereign  effect.  It  is  in  a  lofty 
comparison  of  the  planet  Mars  looking  through  morning  vapors  ; 
the  reader  will  see  with  what  {Purgatorio,  c.  ii.,  v.  10).  Dante 
and  his  guide  Virgil  have  just  left  the  infernal  regions,  and  are 
lingering  on  a  solitary  sea-shore  in  purgatory ;  which  reminds 
us  of  that  still  and  far-thoughted  verse — 

Lone  sitting  by  the  shores  of  old  romance. 

But  to  our  English-like  Italian. 

Noi  eravam  lungh'  esso  '1  mare  ancora,  &c. 

That  solitary  shore  we  still  kept  on, 

Like  men,  who  musing  on  their  journey,  stay 

At  rest  in  body,  yet  in  heart  are  gone ; 
When  lo  !  as  at  the  early  dawn  of  day, 

Red  Mars  looks  deepening  through  the  foggy  heat, 

Down  in  the  west,  far  o'er  the  watery  way ; 
So  did  mine  eyes  behold  (so  may  they  yet) 

A  light,  which  came  so  swiftly  o'er  the  sea. 

That  never  wing  with  such  a  fervor  beat. 
I  did  but  turn  to  ask  what  it  might  be 

Of  iry  sage  leader,  when  its  orb  had  got 

Mor(  large  meanwhile,  and  came  more  gloriously 
And  by  degrees,  I  saw  I  knew  not  what 

Of  white  about  it ;  and  beneath  the  white 

Another.     My  great  master  uttered  not 
One  word,  till  those  first  issuing  candours  bright 

Fanned  into  wings ;  but  soon  as  he  had  found 

Who  was  the  mighty  voyager  now  in  sight. 
He  cried  aloud,  "  DoMn,  down,  upon  the  ground, 

It  is  God's  Angel." 


dO  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xvi 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

The  Shoemaker  of  Veyros,  a  Portuguese  Tradition. 

In  the  time  of  the  old  kings  of  Portugal,  Don  John,  a  natural 
son  of  the  reigning  prince,  was  governor  of  the  town  of  Veyros, 
in  the  province  of  Alentejo.  The  town  was  situate  (perhaps  is 
there  still)  upon  a  mountain,  at  the  foot  of  which  runs  a  river ; 
and  at  a  little  distance  there  was  a  ford  over  it,  under  another 
eminence.  The  bed  of  the  river  thereabouts  was  so  high  as  to 
form  a  shallow  sandy  place  ;  and  in  that  clear  spot  of  water,  the 
maidens  of  Veyros,  both  of  high  rank  and  humble,  used  to  wash 
their  clothes. 

It  happened  one  day,  that  Don  John,  riding  out  with  a  com- 
pany, came  to  the  spot  at  the  time  the  young  women  were  so 
employed  :  and  being,  says  our  author,  "  a  young  and  lusty 
gallant,"  he  fell  to  jesting  with  his  followers  upon  the  bare  legs 
of  the  busy  girls,  who  had  tucked  up  their  clothes,  as  usual,  to 
their  work.  He  passed  along  the  river ;  and  all  his  company 
had  not  gone  by,  when  a  lass  in  a  red  petticoat,  while  tucking  it 
up,  showed  her  legs  somewhat  high  ;  and  clapping  her  hand  on 
her  right  calf,  said  loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  the  riders? 
"  Here's  a  white  leg,  girls,  for  the  Master  of  Avis."* 

These  words,  spoken  probably  out  of  a  little  lively  bravado, 
upon  the  strength  of  the  governor's  having  gone  by,  were  repeat- 
ed to  him  when  he  got  home,  together  with  the  action  that  accom- 
panied them :  upon  which  the  young  lord  felt  the  eloquence  of 
the  speech  so  deeply,  that  he  contrived  to  have  the  fair  speaker 
brought  to  him  in  private  ;  and  the  consequence  was,  that  our 
lively  natural  son,  and  his  sprightly  challenger,  had  another 
natura;  son. 

•  An  order  of  knighthood,  of  which  Don  fohn  was  Master. 


CHAP,  xvi.]  THE  SHOEMAKER  OF  VEYROS.  01 

Ines  (for  that  was  the  girl's  name)  was  the  daughter  of  a  shoe 
maker  in  Veyros ;  a  man  of  very  good  account,  and  wealthy 
Hearing  how  his  daughter  had  been  sent  for  to  the  young  gov 
ernor's  house,  and  that  it  was  her  own  light  behavior  that  sub- 
jected  her  to  what  he  was  assured  she  willingly  consented  to,  ho 
took  it  so  to  heart,  that  at  her  return  home,  she  was  driven  by 
him  from  the  house,  with  every  species  of  contumely  and  spurn- 
ing. After  this  he  never  saw  her  more.  And  to  prove  to  the 
world  and  to  himself,  that  his  severity  was  a  matter  of  principle, 
and  not  a  mere  indulgence  of  his  own  passions,  he  never  after- 
wards lay  in  a  bed,  nor  ate  at  a  table,  nor  changed  his  linen, 
nor  cut  his  hair,  nails,  or  beard  ;  which  latter  grew  to  such  a 
length,  reaching  below  his  knees,  that  the  people  used  to  call  him 
Barbadon,  or  Old  Beardy. 

In  the  meantime,  his  grandson,  called  Don  Alphonso,  not  only 
grew  to  be  a  man,  but  was  created  Duke  of  Braganza,  his 
father  Don  John  having  been  elected  to  the  crown  of  Portugal ; 
which  he  wore  after  such  noble  fashion,  to  the  great  good  of  his 
country,  as  to  be  surnamed  the  Memorable.  Now  the  town  of 
Veyros  stood  in  the  middle  of  seven  or  eight  others,  all  belong- 
ing to  the  young  Duke,  from  whose  palace  at  Villa  Viciosa  it 
was  but  four  leagues  distant.  He  therefore  had  good  intelligence 
of  the  shoemaker  his  grandfather;  and  being  of  a  humane  and 
truly  generous  spirit,  the  accounts  he  received  of  the  old  man's 
way  of  life  made  him  extremely  desirous  of  paying  him  a  visit. 
He  accordingly  went  with  a  retinue  to  Veyros ;  and  meeting 
Barbadon  in  the  streets,  he  alighted  from  his  horse,  bareheaded, 
and  in  the  presence  of  that  stately  company  and  the  people,  ask- 
ed the  old  man  his  blessing.  The  shoemaker,  astonished  at  this 
sudden  spectacle,  and  at  the  strange  contrast  which  it  furnished 
to  his  humble  rank,  stared  in  a  bewildered  manner  upon  the 
unknown  personage,  who  thus  kn'^lt  to  him  in  the  public  way ; 
and  said,  "  Sir,  do  you  mock  me  ?'  "  No,"  answered  the  Duke  ; 
"  may  God  so  help  me,  as  I  do  not:  but  in  earnest  I  crave  I 
may  kiss  your  hand  and  receive  your  blessing,  for  I  am  youi 
grandson,  and  son  to  Ines  your  daughter,  conceived  by  the  king, 
my  lord  and  father."  No  sooner  had  the  shoemaker  heard  these 
words,  than  he  clapped  his  hands  before  his  eyes,  and  said,  "  God 


62  THE  INDICATO]?.  [chap.  xvi. 

bless  me  from  ever  beholding  the  son  of  so  wicked  a  daughter  as 
mine  was  !  And  yet,  forasmuch  as  you  are  not  guilty  of  her 
offence,  hold ;  take  my  hand  and  my  blessing,  in  the  name  of 
the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost."  So  saying, 
he  laid  one  of  his  old  hands  upon  the  young  man's  head,  blessing 
him  ;  but  neither  the  Duke  nor  his  followers  could  persuade 
him  to  take  the  other  away  from  his  eyes  ;  neither  would  he  talk 
with  him  a  word  more.  In  this  spirit,  shortly  after,  he  died ; 
and  just  before  his  death  he  directed  a  tomb  to  be  made  for  him, 
on  which  were  sculptured  the  tools  belonging  to  his  trade,  with 
this  epitaph  : — 

"  This  sepulchre  Barbadon  caused  to  be  made 
(Being  of  Veyros,  a  shoemaker  by  his  trade), 
For  himself  and  the  rest  of  his  race, 
Excepting  his  daughter  Ines  in  any  case." 

The  author  says,  that  he  has  *'  heard  it  reported  by  the 
ancientest  persons,  that  the  fourth  Duke  of  Braganza,  Don  James, 
son  to  Donna  Isabel,  sister  to  the  King  Don  Emanuel,  caused 
that  tomb  to  be  defaced,  being  the  sepulchre  of  his  fourth  grand- 
father."* 

As  for  the  daughter,  the  conclusion  of  whose  story  comes 
lagging  in  like  a  penitent,  "  she  continued,"  says  the  writer, 
"  after  she  was  delivered  of  that  son,  a  very  chaste  and  virtuous 
woman  ;  and  the  king  made  her  commandress  of  Santos,  a  most 
honorable  place,  and  very  plentiful  ;  to  the  which  none  but  prin- 
cesses were  admitted,  living,  as  it  were,  abbesses  and  princesses 
of  a  monastery  built  without  the  walls  of  Lisbon,  called  Santos, 
founded  by  reason  of  some  martyrs  that  were  martyred  there. 
And  the  religious  women  of  that  place  have  liberty  to  marry 
with  the  knights  of  their  order,  before  they  enter  into  that  holy 
profession." 

The  rest  of  our  author's  remarks  are  in  too  curious  a  spirit 
to  be  omitted.     "  In  this  monastery,"  he  says,  "  the  same  Donna 

•  It  appears  by  this,  that  the  Don  John  of  the  tradition  is  John  the  First, 
who  was  elected  king  of  Portugal,  a  d  became  famous  for  his  great  quali- 
ties; and  that  his  son  by  the  sUeged  shoemaker's  daughter  was  his  succe' 
8or,  Alphonso  the  Fifth. 


CHAP.  XVI.]  THE  SHOEMAKER  OF  VEYROS.  CA 

Ines  died,  leaving  behind  her  a  glorious  reputation  for  her  virtue 
and  holiness.  Observe,  gentle  reader,  the  constancy  that  this 
Portuguese,  a  shoemaker,  continued  in,  loathing  to  behold  the 
honorable  estate  of  his  grandchild,  nor  would  any  more  acknow- 
ledge his  daughter,  having  been  a  lewd  woman,  for  purchasing 
advancement  with  dishonor.  This  considered,  you  will  not  won- 
der at  the  Count  Julian,  that  plagued  Spain,  and  executed  the 
king  Roderigo  for  forcing  his  daughter  La  Cava.  The  example 
of  this  shoemaker  is  especially  worthy  the  noting,  and  deeply  to 
be  considered :  for,  besides,  that  it  makes  good  our  assertion,  it 
teaches  the  higher  not  to  disdain  the  lower,  as  long  as  they  be 
virtuous  and  lovers  of  honor.  It  may  be  that  this  old  man,  for 
his  integrity,  rising  from  a  virtuous  zeal,  merited  that  a  daugh- 
ter coming  by  descent  from  his  grandchild,  should  be  made  Queen 
of  Castile,  and  the  mother  of  great  Isabel,  grandmother  to  llie 
Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth,  and  Ferdinando." 

Alas!  a  pretty  posterity  our  shoemaker  had,  in  Pliiliu  II. 
and  his  successors, — a  race  more  suitable  to  his  severity  agains* 
his  child,  than  his  blessing  upon  his  grandchild.  Old  Barbadon 
was  a  fine  fellow  too,  after  his  fashion.  We  do  not  know  how  he 
reconciled  his  unforgiving  conduct  with  his  Christianity  ;  but  he 
had  enough  precedents  on  that  point.  What  we  admire  in  him 
is,  his  showing  that  he  acted  out  of  principle,  and  did  not  mistake 
passion  for  it.  His  crepidarian  sculptures  indeed  are  not  so  well ; 
but  a  little  vanity  may  be  allowed  to  mingle  with  and  soften  such 
edge-tools  of  self-denial,  as  he  chose  to  handle.  His  treatment 
of  his  daughter  was  ignorant,  and  in  wiser  times  would  have 
been  brutal ;  especially  when  it  is  considered  how  much  the  con- 
duct of  children  is  modified  by  education  and  other  circumstan- 
ces :  but  then  a  brutal  man  would  not  have  accompanied  it  with 
such  voluntary  suffering  of  his  own.  Neither  did  Barbadon 
leave  his  daughter  to  take  her  chance  in  the  wide  world,  think- 
ing of  the  evils  she  might  be  enduring,  only  to  give  a  greater 
zest  of  fancied  pity  to  the  contentedness  of  his  cruelty.  He  knew 
she  was  well  taken  care  of;  and  if  she  was  not  to  have  the  enjoy- 
ment of  his  society,  he  was  determined  that  it  should  be  a  very 
uncomfortable  one  to  himself.  He  knew  that  she  lay  on  a 
princely  bed,  while  he  would  have  none  at  all.     He   knew  that 


64  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xvi 

sne  was,  served  upon  gold  and  silver,  while  he  renounced  his  old 
chestnut  table, — the  table  at  which  she  used  to  sit.  He  knew 
while  he  sat  looking  at  his  old  beard,  and  the  wilful  sordid 
ness  of  his  hands,  that  her  locks  and  her  fair  limbs  were  ob- 
jects of  worship  to  the  gallant  and  the  great.  And  so  he  set  off 
his  destitutions  against  her  over-possession ;  and  took  out  the 
punishment  he  gave  her,  in  revenge  upon  himself.  This  was  the 
instinct  of  a  man  who  loved  a  principle,  but  hated  nobody  : — of 
a  man  who,  in  a  wiser  time,  would  have  felt  the  wisdom  of  kind- 
ness. Thus  his  blessing  upon  his  grandchild  becomes  consistent 
with  his  cruelty  to  his  child  :  and  his  living  stock  was  a  fine  one, 
in  spite  of  him.  His  daughter  showed  a  sense  of  the  wound  she 
had  given  such  a  father,  by  relinquishing  the  sympathies  she 
loved,  because  they  had  hurt  him  :  and  her  son,  worthy  of  such 
a  grandfather  and  such  a  daughter,  and  refined  into  a  graceful- 
ness of  knowledge  by  education,  thought  it  no  mean  thing  or 
vulgar  to  kneel  to  the  grey-headed  artisan  in  the  street,  and  beg 
the  biessmg  of  his  honest  hand. 


CHAP.  XVII.]  MORE  NEWS  OF  ULYSSES.  85 


CHAPTER  XV.  I. 

More  News  of  Ulysses. 

Talking  the  other  day  with  a  friend*  about  Dante,  ne  observed, 
that  whenever  so  great  a  poet  told  anything  in  addition  or  con- 
tinuation of  an  ancient  story,  he  had  a  right  to  be  regarded  as 
classical  authority.  For  instance,  said  he,  when  he  tells  us  of 
that  characteristic  death  of  Ulysses  in  one  of  the  books  of  his 
Inferno,  we  ought  to  receive  the  information  as  authentic,  and  be 
glad  that  we  have  more  news  of  Ulysses  than  we  looked  for. 

We  thought  this  a  happy  remark,  and  instantly  turned  with 
him  to  the  passage  in  question.  The  last  account  of  Ulysses  in 
the  ancient  poets,  is  his  sudden  re-appearance  before  the  suitors 
at  Ithaca.  There  is  something  more  told  of  him,  it  is  true, 
before  the  Odyssey  concludes ;  but  with  the  exception  of  his 
visit  to  his  aged  father,  our  memory  scarcely  wishes  to  retain  it ; 
nor  does  it  controvert  the  general  impression  left  upon  us,  that 
the  wandering  hero  is  victorious  over  his  domestic  enemies  ;  and 
reposes  at  last,  and  for  life,  in  the  bosom  of  his  family. 

The  lesser  poets,  however,  could  not  let  him  alone.  Homer 
leaves  the  general  impression  upon  one's  mind,  as  to  the  close  of 
his  life;  but  there  are  plenty  of  obscurer  fables  about  it  still. 
We  have  specimens  in  modern  times  of  this  propensity  never  to 
have  done  with  a  good  story ;  which  is  natural  enough,  though 
not  very  wise  ;  nor  are  the  best  writers  likely  to  meddle  with  it. 
Thus  Cervantes  was  plagued  with  a  spurious  Quixote  ;  and  our 
circulating  libraries  have  the  adventures  of  Tom  Jones  in  his 
Married  State.  The  ancient  writers  on  the  present  subject, 
availing  themselves  of  an  obscure  prophecy  of  Tiresias,  who 
tells  Ulysses  on  his  visit  to  hell,  that  his  old  enemy  the  sea  would 
bj  the  death  of  him  at  last,  bring  over  the  sea  '^elegonus,  his 

•  The  late  Mr.  Keats. 


CG  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xvii 

son  by  the  goddess  Circe,  who  gets  into  a  scuffle  with  the  Itha- 
cans,  and  kills  his  father  unknowingly.  It  is  added  that  Tele- 
gonus  afterwards  returned  to  his  mother's  island,  taking  Pene- 
lope  and  her  half-brother  Telemachus  with  him ;  and  here  a 
singular  arrangement  takes  place,  more  after  the  fashion  of  a 
modern  Catholic  dynasty,  than  an  ancient  heathen  one ;  for 
while  CEdipus  was  fated  to  undergo  such  dreadful  misfortunes 
for  marrying  his  mother  without  the  knowledge  of  either  party, 
Minerva  herself  comes  down  from  heaven,  on  the  present  occa- 
sion, to  order  Telegonus,  the  son  of  Ulysses,  to  marry  his  father's 
wife ;  the  other  son  at  the  same  time  making  a  suitable  match 
with  his  father's  mistress,  Circe.  Telemachus  seems  to  have 
had  the  best  of  this  extraordinary  bargain,  for  Circe  was  a  god- 
dess, consequently  always  young ;  and  yet  to  perplex  these 
windings-up  still  more,  Telemachus  is  represented  by  some  as 
marrying  Circe's  daughter,  and  killing  his  immortal  mother-in- 
law.  Nor  does  the  character  of  the  chaste  and  enduring  Pene- 
lope escape  in  the  confusion.  Instead  of  waiting  her  husband's 
return  in  that  patient  manner,  she  is  reported  to  have  been  over- 
hospitable  to  all  the  suitors ;  the  consequence  of  which  was  a 
son  called  Pan,  being  no  less  a  personage  than  the  god  Pan  him- 
self, or  Nature  ;  a  fiction,  as  Bacon  says,  "  applied  very  absurd- 
ly and  indiscreetly."  There  are  different  stories  respecting  hex 
lovers  ;  but  it  is  reported  that  when  Ulysses  returned  from  Troy, 
he  divorced  her  for  incontinence  ;  and  that  she  fled,  and  passed 
her  latter  days  in  Mantinea.  Some  even  go  so  far  as  to  say,  that 
her  father  [carius  had  attempted  to  destroy  her  when  young, 
because  the  oracle  had  told  him  that  she  would  be  the  most  dis- 
solute of  the  family.  This  was  probubly  invented  by  the  comic 
writers  out  of  a  buffoon  malignity  ;  for  there  are  men,  so  fool- 
ishly incredulous  with  regard  to  principle,  that  the  reputation  of 
it,  even  in  a  fiction,  makes  them  impatient. 

Now  it  is  impossible  to  say,  whether  Dante  would  have  left 
Ulysses  quietly  with  Penelope  after  all  his  sufferings,  had  he 
known  them  as  described  in  Homer.  The  old  Florentine, 
though  wilful  enough  when  he  wanted  to  dispose  of  a  modern's 
fate,  had  great  veneration  for  his  predecessors.  At  all  events, 
he  was  not  acquainted  with  Homer's  works.    They  did  not  make 


CHi^p  xvii.i  MORE  NEWS  OF  ULYSSES.  67 

their  way  back  into  Italy  till  a  little  later.  But  there  were 
Latin  writers  extant,  who  might  have  informed  h'm  of  the  other 
stories  relative  to  Ulysses  ;  and  he  saw  nothing  in  them  to  hindei 
him  from  giving  the  great  wanderer  a  death  of  his  own. 

He  has  accordingly,  with  great  attention  to  nature,  made  him 
impatient  of  staying  at  home,  after  a  life  of  such  adventure  and 
excitement.  But  we  will  relate  the  story  in  his  own  order.  Ho 
begins  it  with  one  of  his  most  romantic  pieces  of  wildness.  The 
poet  and  his  guide  Virgil  are  making  the  best  of  their  difficult 
path  along  a  ridge  of  the  craggy  rock  that  overhangs  the  eighth 
gulf  of  hell  ;  when  Dante,  looking  down,  sees  the  abyss  before 
him  full  of  flickering  lights,  as  numerous,  he  says,  as  the  fire- 
flies which  a  peasant,  reposing  on  a  hill,  sees  filling  the  valley,  of 
a  hot  evening.  Every  flame  shot  about  separately  ;  and  he 
knew  that  some  terrible  mystery  or  other  accompanied  it.  As 
he  leaned  down  from  the  rock,  grasping  one  of  the  crags,  in 
order  to  look  closer,  his  guide,  who  perceived  his  earnestness, 
said,  "  Within  those  fires  are  spirits  ;  everyone  swathed  in  what 
is  burning  him."  Dante  told  him,  that  he  had  already  guessed 
as  much  ;  and  pointing  to  one  of  them  in  particular,  asked  who 
was  in  that  fire  which  was  divided  at  top,  as  though  it  had 
ascended  from  the  funeral  pile  of  the  hating  Theban  brothers. 
"  Within  that,"  answered  Virgil,  "  are  Diomed  and  Ulysses,  who 
speed  together  now  to  their  own  misery,  as  they  used  to  do  to  that 
of  others."  They  were  suffering  the  penalty  of  the  various 
frauds  they  had  perpetrated  in  concert ;  such  as  the  contrivance 
of  the  Trojan  horse,  and  the  theft  of  the  Palladium.  Dante 
entreats,  that  if  those  who  are  within  the  sparkling  horror  can 
speak,  it  may  be  made  to  come  near.  Virgil  says  it  shall  ;  but 
begs  the  Florentine  not  to  question  it  himself,  as  the  spirits,  being 
Greek,  might  be  shy  of  holding  discourse  with  him.  When  the 
flame  has  come  near  enough  to  be  spoken  to,  Virgil  addresses 
the  "  two  within  one  fire  ;"  and  requests  them,  if  he  ever  deserved 
anything  of  them  as  a  poet,  great  or  little,  that  they  would  not  go 
away,  till  one  of  them  had  told  him  how  he  came  in  that  extremity. 

At  this,  says  Dante,  the  greater  horn  of  the  old  fire  began  to 
lap  hither  and  thither,  murmuring  ;  like  a  flame  struggling  with 
the  wind.     The  top  then,  yearning  to  and  fro,  like  a  tongue  try- 

7 


CS  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xvjt 

ing  to  speak,  threw  out  a  voice,  and  said  :  "  When  I  departed 
from  Circe,  who  withdrew  me  to  her  for  more  than  a  year  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Gaieta,  before  ^Eneas  had  so  named  it, 
neither  the  sweet  company  of  my  son,  nor  pious  affection  of  my 
old  father,  nor  the  long-owed  love  with  which  I  ought  to  have 
gladdened  Penelope,  could  conquer  the  ardor  that  was  in  mo  jO 
become  wise  in  knowledge  of  the  world,  of  man's  vices,  and  his 
virtue.  I  put  forth  into  the  great  open  deep  with  only  one  bark, 
and  the  small  remaining  crew  by  whom  I  had  not  been  left. 
I  saw  the  two  shores  on  either  side,  as  far  as  Spain  and  Morocco  ; 
and  the  island  of  Sardinia,  and  the  other  isles  which  the  sea 
there  bathes  round  about.  Slowly  we  went,  my  companions  and 
I,  for  we  were  old  ;  till  at  last  we  came  to  that  narrow  outlet, 
where  Hercules  set  up  his  pillars,  that  no  man  might  go  further. 
I  left  Seville  on  the  right  hand  ;  on  the  other  I  had  left  Ceuta. 
O  brothers,  said  I,  who  through  a  hundred  thousand  perils  are  at 
length  arrived  at  the  west,  deny  not  to  the  short  waking  day  that 
yet  remains  to  our  senses,  an  insiglit  into  the  unpeopled  world, 
setting  your  backs  upon  the  sun.  Consider  the  stock  from  which 
ye  sprang  :  ye  were  not  made  to  live  like  the  brufe  beasts,  but  to 
follow  virtue  and  knowledge.  I  so  sharpened  my  compaaions 
with  this  little  speech  on  our  way,  that  it  would  have  been  diffi- 
cult for  me  to  have  withheld  them,  if  I  would.  We  left  the 
morning  right  in  our  stern,  and  made  wings  of  our  oars  for  the 
idle  flight,  always  gaining  upon  the  left.  The  night  now  be- 
held all  the  stars  of  the  other  pole  ;  while  our  own  was  so  low, 
that  it  arose  not  out  of  the  ocean  floor.  Five  times  the  light  had 
risen  underneath  the  moon,  and  five  times  fallen,  since  we  put 
forth  upon  the  great  deep  ;  when  we  descried  a  dim  mountain  in 
the  distance,  which  appeared  higher  to  me  than  any  I  had  seen 
ever  before.  We  rejoiced,  and  as  soon  mourned:  for  there 
sprung  a  whirlwind  from  the  new  land,  and  struck  the  foremost 
frame  of  our  vessel.  Three  times,  with  all  the  waters,  it  whirled 
us  round  ;  at  the  fourth  it  dashed  the  stern  up  in  air,  and  tho 
prow  downwards;  till,  as  seemed  fit  to  others,  the  ocean  closed 
aboye  our  heads." 

Tre  volte  il  fe  girar  con  tutte  1'  acque  : 
A  la  quarta  levar  '    poppa  in  suso, 


CHAP.  XVII.]  MORE  NEWS  OF  ULYSSES.  69 

E  la  prora  ire  i:  giii,  come  altrui  piacque, 
Infin  ch  '1  mar  fu  sopra  noi  richiuso. 

Why  poor  Ulysses  should  find  himself  in  hell  after  his  inimer 
sion,  and  be  condemned  to  a  swathing  of  eternal  fire,  while  St. 
Dominic,  who  deluged  Christianity  with  fire  and  blood,  is  called 
a  Cherubic  Light,  the  Papist,  not  the  poet,  must  explain.  He 
puts  all  the  Pagans  in  hell,  because,  however  good  some  of  them 
may  have  been,  they  lived  before  Christ,  and  could  not  worship 
God  properly — {dehitainente).  But  he  laments  their  state,  and 
represents  them  as  suffering  a  mitigated  punishment ;  they  only 
live  in  a  state  of  perpetual  desire  without  hope  {sol  di  tanto  offesi) ! 
A  sufficing  misery,  it  must  be  allowed  ;  but  compared  with  the 
horrors  he  fancies  for  heretics  and  others,  undoubtedly  a  great 
relief.  Dante,  throughout  his  extraordinary  work,  gives  many 
evidences  of  great  natural  sensibility  ;  and  his  countenance,  as 
handed  down  to  us,  as  well  as  the  shade-struck  gravity  of  his 
poetry,  shows  the  cuts  and  disquietudes  of  heart  he  must  have 
endured.  But  unless  the  occasional  hell  of  his  own  troubles,  and 
his  consciousness  of  the  mutability  of  all  things,  helped  him  to 
discover  the  brevity  of  individual  suffering  as  a  particular,  and 
the  lastingness  of  nature's  benevolence  as  a  universal,  and  thus 
gave  his  poem  an  intention  beyond  what  appears  upon  the  sur- 
face, we  must  conclude,  that  a  bigoted  education,  and  the  fierce 
party  politics  in  which  he  was  a  leader  and  sufferer,  obscured 
the  greatness  of  his  spirit.  It  is  always  to  be  recollected,  how- 
ever, as  Mr.  Coleridge  has  observed  somewhere  in  other  words, 
that  when  men  consign  each  other  to  eternal  punishment  and 
such-like  horrors,  their  belief  is  rather  a  venting  of  present  im- 
patience and  dislike,  than  anything  which  they  take  it  for.  The 
fiercest  Papist  or  Calvinist  only  ffatters  himself  (a  strange  flat- 
tery, too !)  that  he  could  behold  a  fellow-creature  tumbling  and 
shrieking  about  in  eternal  fire.  He  would  begin  shrieking  him- 
self in  a  few  minutes  ;  and  think  that  he  and  all  heaven  ought  to 
pass  away,  rather  than  that  one  such  agony  should  continue. 
Tertullian  himself,  when  he  longed  to  behold  the  enemies  of  his 
faith  burning  and  liquefying,  only  meant,  without  knowing  it, 
that  he  was  in  an  excessive  rage  at  not  convincing  everybody 
tlnat  read  him. 


70  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xvm 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Far  Countries. 

Imagination,  though  no  mean  thing,  is  not  a  proud  one.  If  it 
looks  down  from  its  wings  upon  common-places,  it  only  the  more 
perceives  the  vastness  of  the  region  about  it.  The  infinity  into 
which  its  flight  carries  it,  might  indeed  throw  back  upon  it  a  too 
great  sense  of  insignificance,  did  not  Beauty  or  Moral  Justice, 
with  its  equal  eye,  look  through  that  blank  aspect  of  power,  and 
re-assure  it ;  showing  it  that  there  is  a  power  as  much  above 
power  itself,  as  the  thought  that  reaches  to  all,  is  to  the  hand  that 
can  touch  only  thus  far. 

But  we  do  not  wish  to  get  into  this  tempting  region  of  specula- 
tion just  now.  We  only  intend  to  show  the  particular  instance 
in  which  imagination  instinctively  displays  its  natural  humility ; 
we  mean,  the  fondness  which  imaginative  times  and  people  have 
shown  for  what  is  personally  remote  from  them  ;  for  what  is 
opposed  to  their  own  individual  consciousness,  even  in  range  of 
space,  in  farness  of  situation. 

There  is  no  surer  mark  of  a  vain  people  than  their  treating 
other  nations  with  contempt,  especially  those  of  whom  they  know 
least.  It  is  better  to  verify  the  proverb,  and  take  everything 
unknown  for  magnificent,  than  predetermine  it  to  be  worthless. 
The  gain  is  greater.  The  instinct  is  more  judicious.  When 
we  mention  the  French  as  an  instance,  we  do  not  mean  to  be 
invidious.  Most  nations  have  their  good  as  well  as  bad  features. 
In  Vanity  Fair  there  are  many  booths. 

The  French,  not  long  ago,  praised  one  of  their  neighbors  so 
highly,  that  the  latter  is  suspected  to  have  lost  as  muoh  modesty, 
as  the  former  gained  by  it.  But  they  did  this  as  a  set-off 
against  their  own  despots  and  bigots.  When  they  again 
became  the  greatest  power  in  Europe,  they  had  a  relapse  of 
their  old  egotism      The  French,  though  an  amiable  and  intelli- 


CHAP  XVIII.]  FAR  COUNTRIES.  71 

gent  people,  are  not  an  imaginative  one.  The  greatest  height 
they  go  is  in  a  balloon.  They  get  no  farther  than  France,  let 
them  go  where  they  will.  They  "  run  the  great  circle  and  are 
s'lll  at  home,"  like  a  squirrel  in  his  rolling  cage.  Instead  of 
going  to  Nature  in  their  poetry,  they  would  make  her  come  to 
them,  and  dress  herself  at  their  last  new  toilet.  In  philosophy 
and  metaphysics,  they  divest  themselves  of  gross  prejudices, 
and  then  think  they  are  in  as  graceful  a  state  of  nakedness  as 
Adam  and  Eve. 

At  the  time  when  the  French  had  this  fit  upon  them  of  prais- 
ing the  English  (which  was  nevertheless  the  honester  one  of  the 
two),  they  took  to  praising  the  Chinese  for  numberless  unknown 
qualities.  This  seems  a  contradiction  to  the  near-sightedness 
we  speak  of :  but  the  reason  they  praised  them  was,  that  the 
Chinese  had  the  merit  of  religious  toleration:  a  great  and  extra- 
ordinary one  certainly,  and  not  the  less  so  for  having  been,  to 
all  appearance,  the  work  of  one  man.  All  the  romance  of 
China,  such  as  it  was, — anything  in  which  they  differed  from 
the  French, — their  dress,  their  porcelain  towers,  their  Great 
Wall, — was  nothing.  It  was  the  particular  agreement  with  the 
philosophers. 

It  happened,  curiously  enough,  that  they  could  not  have 
selected  for  their  panegyric  a  nation  apparently  more  contempt- 
uous of  others  ;  or  at  least  more  self-satisfied  and  unimagina- 
tive. Tlie  Chinese  are  cunning  and  ingenious  ;  and  have  a 
great  talent  at  bowing  out  ambassadors  who  come  to  visit  them. 
But  it  is  somewhat  inconsistent  with  what  appears  to  be  their 
general  character,  that  they  should  pay  strangers  even  this 
equivocal  compliment ;  for  under  a  prodigious  mask  of  polite- 
ness, they  are  not  slow  to  evince  their  contempt  of  other  nations, 
whenever  any  comparison  is  insinuated  with  the  subjects  of  the 
Brother  of  the  Sun  and  Moon.  The  knowledge  they  respect  in 
us  most  is  that  of  gun-making,  and  of  the  East-Indian  passage. 
When  our  countrymen  showed  them  a  map  of  the  earth,  they 
inquired  for  China;  and  on  finding  that  it  only  made  a  little 
piece  in  a  corner,  could  not  contain  their  derision.  They 
thought  that  it  was  the  ma"n  territory  in  the  middle,  the  apple 
of  the  world's  eye. 

7* 


7?  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap  xvir, 

On  the  other  hand,  the  most  imaginative  nations,  in  theii 
highest  times,  have  had  a  respect  for  remote  countries.  It  is  a 
mistake  to  suppose  that  the  ancient  term  barbarian,  applied  to 
foreigners,  suggested  the  meaning  we  are  apt  to  give  it.  It 
gathered  some  such  insolence  with  it  in  the  course  of  time ;  but 
the  more  intellectual  Greeks  venerated  the  countries  from  which 
they  brought  the  elements  of  their  mythology  and  philosophy, 
The  philosopher  travelled  into  Egypt,  like  a  son  to  see  his 
father.  The  merchant  heard  in  Phoenicia  the  far-brought  sto- 
ries of  other  realms,  which  he  told  to  his  delighted  countrymen. 
It  is  supposed,  that  the  mortal  part  of  Mentor  in  the  Odyssey  was 
drawn  from  one  of  these  voyagers.  When  Anacharsis  the  Scy- 
thian was  reproached  with  his  native  place  by  an  unworthy 
Greek,  he  said,  "  My  country  may  be  a  shame  to  me,  but  you 
are  a  shame  to  your  country."  Greece  had  a  lofty  notion  of 
the  Persians  and  the  Great  King,  till  Xerxes  came  over  to 
teach  it  better,  and  betrayed  the  softness  of  their  skulls. 

It  was  the  same  with  the  Arabians,  at  the  time  when  they  had 
the  accomplishments  of  the  world  to  themselves  ;  as  we  see  by 
their  delightful  tales.  Everything  shines  with  them  in  the  dis- 
tance, like  a  sunset.  What  an  amiable  people  are  their  Per- 
sians!  What  a  wonderful  place  is  the  island  of  Serendib  ! 
You  would  think  nothing  could  be  finer  than  the  Caliph's  city 
of  Bagdat,  till  you  hear  of  "Grand  Cairo  ;"  and  how  has  that 
epithet  and  that  name  towered  in  the  imagination  of  all  those, 
who  have  not  had  the  misfortune  to  see  the  modern  city  ?  Sind- 
bad  was  respected,  like  Ulysses,  because  he  had  seen  so  many 
adventures  and  nations.  So  was  Aboulfaouris  the  Great  Voy- 
ager, in  the  Persian  Tales.  His  very  name  sounds  like  a 
wonder. 

With  many  a  tempest  had  his  beard  been  shaken. 

it  was  one  of  the  workings  of  the  great  Alfred's  mind,  to 
Know  about  far-distant  countries.  There  is  a  translation  by 
him  of  a  book  of  geography  ;  and  he  even  employed  people  to 
travel :  a  great  stretch  ^f  intellectual  munificence  for  those 
times.     About  the  same  period,  Haroun  al  Raschid  (whom  our 


CHAP.  XVIII.]  FAR  COUNTRIES.  7.3 

manhood  is  startled  to  find  almost  a  less  real  person  than  we 
thought  him,  for  his  very  reality)  wrote  a  letter  to  the  Emperor 
of  the  West,  Charlemagne.  Here  is  Arabian  and  Italian 
romance,  shaking  hands  in  person. 

The  Crusades  pierced  into  a  new  world  of  remoteness.  We 
do  not  know  whether  those  were  much  benefited,  who  took  part 
in  them  ;  but  for  the  imaginative  person  remaining  at  home,  the 
idea  of  going  to  Palestine  must  have  been  like  travelling  into  a 
supernatural  world.  When  the  campaign  itself  had  a  good 
effect,  it  must  have  been  of  a  very  fine  and  highly-tempered 
description.     Chaucer's  Knight  had  been 

Sometime  with  the  lord  of  Palatie 

Agen  another  hethen  in  Turkie : 

And  evermore  he  had  a  sovereign  price : 

And  though  that  he  was  worthy,  he  was  wise. 

And  of  his  port  as  meek  as  is  a  mayde. 

How  like  a  return  from  the  moon  must  have  been.the  re-ap- 
pearance of  such  travellers  as  Sir  John  Mandevile,  Marco  Polo, 
and  William  de  Rubruquis,  with  their  news  of  Prester  John,  the 
Great  Mogul,  and  the  Great  Cham  of  Tartary !  The  long-lo.st 
voyager  must  have  been  like  a  person  consecrated  in  all  the 
quarters  of  heaven.  His  staff"  and  his  beard  must  have  looked 
like  relics  of  his  former  self.  The  Venetians,  who  were  some 
of  the  earliest  European  travellers,  have  been  remarked,  among 
their  other  amiable  qualities,  for  their  great  respect  for  stran- 
gers. The  peculiarity  of  their  position,  and  the  absence  of  so 
many  things  which  are  common-places  to  other  countries,  such 
as  streets,  horses,  and  coaches,  add,  no  doubt,  to  this  feeling. 
But  a  foolish  or  vain  people  would  only  feel  a  contempt  for 
what  they  did  not  possess.  Milton,  in  one  of  those  favorite  pas- 
sages of  his,  in  which  he  turns  a  nomenclature  into  such  grand 
meaning  and  music,  shows  us  whose  old  footing  he  had  delight- 
ed to  follow.  How  he  enjoys  the  distance  ;  emphatically  using 
the  words  far,  farthest,  and  utmost! 

— Embassies  from  regions  far  remote, 
In  various  habits,  on  the  Appian  road, 
Or  on  the  Emilian  ;  some  from  farthest  south. 


74  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xvm 

Syene,  and  where  the  shadow  both  way  falls, 

Meroe,  Nilotick  Isle ;  and  more  to  west 

The  realm  of  Bocchus  to  the  Black-moor  sea ; 

From  the  Asian  kings,  and  Parthian  among  these ; 

From  India  and  the  golden  Chersonese, 

And  utmost  Indian  isle  Taprobane. — Par  ad.  Reg.,  b.  w. 

One  of  our  main  helps  to  our  love  of  remoteness  in  general,  is 
the  associations  we  connect  with  it  of  peace  and  quietness. 
Whatever  there  may  be  at  a  distance,  people  feel  as  if  they  should 
escape  from  the  worry  of  their  local  cares.  "  O  that  I  had 
wings  like  a  dove  !  then  would  I  fly  away  and  be  at  rest." 
The  word yar  is  often  used  wilfully  in  poetry,  to  render  distance 
still  more  distant.     An  old  English  song  begins — 

In  Irelande  farre  over  the  sea 
There  dwelt  a  bonny  king. 

Thomson,  a  Scotchman,  speaking  of  the  western  isles  of  his  own 
country,  has  that  delicious  line,  full  of  a  dreary  yet  lulling 
pleasure ; — 

As  when  a  shepherd  of  the  Hebrid  isles. 
Placed  far  amid  the  melancholy  main. 

In  childhood,  the  total  ignorance  of  the  world,  especially  when 
we  are  brought  up  in  some  confined  spot,  renders  everything  be- 
yond the  bounds  of  our  dwelling  a  distance  and  a  romance. 
Mr.  Lamb,  in  his  Recollections  of  Christ's  Hospital,  says  that  he 
remembers  when  some  half-dozen  of  his  school-fellows  set 
off,  "  without  map,  card,  or  compass,  on  a  serious  expedition  to 
find  out  Philip  Quarll's  Island."  We  once  encountered  a  set  of 
boys  as  romantic.  It  was  at  no  greater  distance  than  at  the  foot 
of  a  hill  near  Hampstead ;  yet  the  spot  was  so  perfectly  Cisal- 
pine to  them,  that  two  of  them  came  up  to  us  with  looks  of  hush- 
ing eagerness,  and  asked  "  whether,  on  the  other  side  of  that 
hill,  there  were  not  robbers;"  to  which,  the  minor  adventurer 
of  the  two  added,  "  and  some  say  serpents."  They  had  all  got 
bows  and  arrows,  and  were  evidently  hovering  about  the  place, 
betwixt  daring  and  apprehension,  as  on  the  borders  of  some  wild 


CHAP,  xviii.]  FAR  COUNTRIES.  '/:. 

region.  We  smiled  to  think  which  it  was  that  husbanded  their 
suburb  wonders  to  more  advantage,  they  or  we :  for  while  they 
peopled  the  place  with  robbers  and  serpents,  we  were  peopling 
it  with  sylvans  and  fairies. 

"  So  was  it  when  my  life  began  ; 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man ; 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old ; 

Or  let  me  die ! 
The  child  is  father  to  the  man ; 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  pie^.** 


76  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap  xix 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A  Tale  for  a  Chimney  Corner. 

A  MAIN  who  does  not  contribute  his  quota  of  grim  story  now-a- 
days,  seems  hardly  to  be  free  of  the  republic  of  letters.  He  ia 
bound  to  wear  a  death's  head,  as  part  of  his  insignia.  If  he 
does  not  frighten  everybody,  he  is  nobody.  If  he  does  not  shock 
the  ladies,  what  can  be  expected  of  him  ? 

We  confess  we  think  very  cheaply  of  these  stories  in  general. 
A  story,  merely  horrible  or  even  awful,  which  contains  no  senti- 
ment elevating  to  the  human  heart  and  its  hopes,  is  a  mere  ap- 
peal to  the  least  judicious,  least  healthy,  and  least  masculine  of 
our  passions, — fear.  They  whose  attention  can  be  gravely  ar- 
rested by  it,  are  in  a  fit  state  to  receive  any  absurdity  with  re- 
spect ;  and  this  is  the  reason,  why  less  talents  are  required  to 
enforce  it,  than  in  any  other  species  of  composition.  With  this 
opinion  of  such  things,  we  may  be  allowed  to  say,  that  we  would 
undertake  to  write  a  dozen  horrible  stories  in  a  day,  all  of  which 
should  make  the  common  worshippers  of  power,  who  Were  not 
in  the  very  healthiest  condition,  turn  pale.  We  v/ould  tell  of 
Haunting  Old  Women,  and  Knocking  Ghosts,  and  Solitary  Lean 
Hands,  and  Empusas  on  one  Leg,  and  Ladies  growing  Longer 
and  Longer,  and  Horrid  Eyes  meeting  us  through  Key-holes, 
and  Plaintive  Heads,  and  Shrieking  Statues,  and  Shocking 
Anomalies  of  Shape,  and  Things  which  when  seen  drove  peop  e 
mad  ;  and  Indigestion  knows  what  besides.  But  who  would 
measure  talents  with  a  leg  of  veal,  or  a  German  sausage  ? 

Mere  grimness  is  as  easy  as  grinning ;  but  it  requires  some- 
thing to  put  a  hardsome  face  on  a  story.  Narratives  become 
of  suspicious  merit  in  proportion  as  they  lean  to  Newgate-like 
offences,  particularly  of  blood  and  wounds.  A  child  has  a  rea- 
sonable respect  for  a  Raw-head-and-bloody-bones,  because  all 


CHAP.  XIX.]      A  TALE  FOR  A  CHIMNEY  CORNER.  77 

images  whatsoever  of  pain  and  terror  are  new  and  fearful  to 
his  inexperienced  age  :  but  sufferings  merely  physical  (unless 
sublimated  like  those  of  Philoctetes)  are  common-places  to  a 
grown  man.  Images,  to  become  awful  to  him,  must  be  removed 
from  the  grossness  of  the  shambles.  A  death's-head  was  a 
respectable  thing  in  the  hands  of  a  poring  monk,  or  of  a  nun 
compelled  to  avoid  the  idea  of  life  and  society,  or  of  a  hermit 
already  buried  in  the  desert.  Holbein's  Dance  of  Death,  in 
which  every  grinning  skeleton  leads  along  a  man  of  rank,  from 
the  pope  to  the  gentleman,  is  a  good  Memento  Mori ;  but  there 
the  skeletons  have  an  air  of  the  ludicrous  and  satirical.  If  we 
were  threatened  with  them  in  a  grave  way,  as  spectres,  we 
should  have  a  right  to  ask  how  tliey  could  walk  about  without 
muscles.  Thus  many  of  the  tales  written  by  such  authors  as 
the  late  Mr.  Lewis,  who  wanted  sentiment  to  give  him  the  heart 
of  truth,  are  quite  puerile.  When  his  spectral  nuns  go  about 
bleeding,  we  think  they  ought  in  decency  to  have  applied  to 
some  ghost  of  a  surgeon.  His  little  Grey  Men,  who  sit  munch- 
ing hearts,  are  of  a  piece  with  fellows  that  eat  cats  for  a  wager. 

Stories  that  give  mental  pain  to  no  purpose,  or  to  very  little 
purpose  compared  with  the  unpleasant  ideas  they  excite  of  human 
nature,  are  as  gross  mistakes,  in  their  way,  as  these,  and  twenty 
times  as  pernicious  :  for  the  latter  become  ludicrous  to  grown 
people.  They  originate  also  in  the  same  extremes,  of  callous- 
ness, or  of  morbid  want  of  excitement,  as  the  others.  But  more 
of  these  hereafter.  Our  business  at  present  is  with  things  ghastly 
and  ghostly. 

A  ghost  story,  to  be  a  good  one,  should  unite,  as  much  as  posei- 
ble,  objects  such  as  they  are  in  life,  with  a  preternatural  spirit. 
And  to  be  a  perfect  one, — at  least  to  add  to  the  other  utility  of 
excitement  a  moral  utility, — they  should  imply  some  great  sen- 
timent,— something  that  comes  out  of  the  next  world  to  remind 
us  of  our  duties  in  this ;  or  something  that  helps  to  carry  on  the 
idea  of  our  humanity  into  after  life,  even  when  we  least  think  we 
shall  take  it  with  us.  When  "  the  buried  majesty  of  Den- 
mark "  revisits  earth  to  speak  to  his  son  Hamlet,  he  comes  armed, 
as  he  used  to  be,  in  his  complete  steel.     His  visor  is  raised  ;  and 


78  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  xix. 

the  same  fine  face  is  there  ;  only,  in  spite  of  his  punishing  errand 
and  his  own  sufferings,  with 

A  countenance  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger. 

When  Donne  the  poet,  in  his  thoughtful  eagerness  to  reconcile 
life  and  death,  had  a  figure  of  himself  painted  in  a  shroud,  and 
laid  by  his  bedside  in  a  coffin,  he  did  a  higher  thing  than  the 
monks  and  hermits  with  their  skulls.  It  was  taking  his  humanity 
with  him  into  the  other  world,  not  affecting  to  lower  the  sense  of  it 
by  regarding  it  piecemeal  or  in  the  frame-work.  Burns,  in  his 
Tayn  O' Shunter,  shows  the  dead  in  their  coffins  after  the  same 
fashion.  He  does  not  lay  bare  to  us  their  skeletons  or  refuse, 
thingb  with  which  we  can  connect  no  sympathy  or  spiritual  won- 
der. They  still  are  flesh  and  body  to  retain  the  one ;  yet  so 
look  and  behave,  inconsistent  in  their  very  consistency,  as  to 
excite  the  other. 

Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses, 
Which  showed  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses : 
And  by  some  devilish  cantrip  sleight, 
Each,  in  his  cauld  hand,  held  a  light. 

Re-animation  is  perhaps  the  most  ghastly  of  all  ghastly  things, 
uniting  as  it  does  an  appearance  of  natural  interdiction  from  the 
next  world,  with  a  supernatural  experience  of  it.  Our  human 
consciousness  is  jarred  out  of  its  self-possession.  The  extremes 
of  habit  and  newness,  of  common-place  and  astonishment,  meet 
suddenly,  without  the  kindly  introduction  of  death  and  change; 
and  the  stranger  appals  us  in  proportion.  When  the  account 
appeared  the  other  day  in  the  newspapers  of  the  galvanized  dead 
body,  whose  features  as  well  as  limbs  underwent  such  contortions, 
that  it  seemed  as  if  it  were  about  to  rise  up,  one  almost  expected  to 
hear,  for  the  first  time,  news  of  the  other  world.  Perhaps  the 
most  appalling  figure  in  Spenser  is  that  of  Maleger :  [Fairy 
Queene,  b.  II.,  c.  xi.) 

Upon  a  tygre  swift  and  fierce  he  rode, 
That  as  the  winde  ran  underneath  his  lode, 
Whiles  his  long  legs  nigh  raught  unto  the  ground  • 


CHAP.  XIX.]        A  TALE  FOR  A  CHIMNEY  CORNER.  79 

Full  large  he  was  of  limbe,  and  shoulders  brode, 
But  of  such  subtile  substance  and  unsound. 
That  like  a  ghost  he  seemed,  whose  grave-clothes  were  unbound. 

Mr.  Coleridge,  in  tliat  voyage  of  his  to  the  brink  of  all  unut- 
terable things,  the  Ancient  Mariner  (which  works  out,  however, 
a  fine  sentiment),  does  not  set  mere  ghosts  or  hobgoblins  to  man 
the  ship  again,  when  its  crew  are  dead ;  but  re-animates,  for  a 
while,  the  crew  themselves.  There  is  a  striking  fiction  of  this 
sort  in  Sale's  notes  upon  the  Koran.  Solomon  dies  during  the 
building  of  the  temple,  but  his  body  remains  leaning  on  a  staff 
and  overlooking  the  workmen,  as  if  it  were  alive  ;  till  a  worm 
gnawing  through  the  prop,  he  falls  down. — The  contrast  of  the 
appearance  of  humanity  with  something  mortal  or  supernatural, 
is  always  the  more  terrible  in  proportion  as  it  is  complete.  In 
the  pictures  of  the  temptations  of  saints  and  hermits,  where  the 
holy  person  is  surrounded,  teazed,  and  enticed,  with  devils  and 
fantastic  shapes,  the  most  shocking  phantasm  is  that  of  the  beau- 
tiful woman.  To  return  also  to  the  poem  above-mentioned. 
The  most  appalling  personage  in  Mr.  Coleridige'' s,  Ancient  Mari- 
ner is  the  Spectre-woman  who  is  called  Life-in-Deatli.  He  ren- 
ders the  most  hideous  abstraction  more  terrible  than  it  could 
otherwise  have  been,  by  embodying  it  in  its  own  reverse. 
"  Death  "  not  only  "  lives  "  in  it ;  but  the  "  unutterable  "  be- 
comes  uttered.  To  see  such  an  unearthly  passage  end  in  such 
earthliness,  seems  to  turn  common-place  itself  into  a  sort  of 
spectral  doubt.  The  Mariner,  after  describing  the  horrible  calm, 
and  the  rotting  sea  in  which  the  ship  was  stuck,  is  speaking  of  a 
strange  sail  which  he  descried  in  the  distance : 

The  western  wave  was  all  a-flame, 
The  day  was  well-nigh  done  ! 
Almost  upon  the  western  wave 
Rested  the  broad  bright  sun ; 
When  that  strange  shape  drove  suddenly 
Betwixt  us  and  the  sun. 

And  straight  the  sun  was  flecked  witl  bars 
(Heaven's  Mother  send  us  grace  !) 
As  if  through  a  dungeon-grate  he  peer  d, 
With  broad  and  burning  face.  ^ 


fiO  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  xix. 

Alas  !  (thought  I,  and  my  heart  beat  loud) 
How  fast  she  nears  and  nears  ! 
Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the  sun 
Like  restless  gossameres  ? 

Are  those  her  ribs,  through  which  the  sun 
Did  peer,  as  through  a  grate  ? 
And  is  that  Woman  all  her  crew .' 
Is  that  a  Death  .'  and  are  there  two  .' 
Is  Death  that  Woman's  mate  ? 

Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were  free, 
Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold, 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy, 
The  Night-Mare  Life-in-Death  was  she, 
Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

But  we  must  come  to  Mr.  Coleridge's  story  with  our  subtlest 
imaginations  upon  us.  Now  let  us  put  our  knees  a  little  nearer 
the  fire,  and  tell  a  homelier  one  about  Life  in  Death.  The 
groundwork  of  it  is  in  Sandys'  Commentary  upon  Ovid,  and 
quoted  from  Sabinus.* 

A  gentleman  of  Bavaria,  of  a  noble  family,  was  so  afflicted 
at  the  death  of  his  wife,  that  unable  to  bear  the  company  of  any 
other  person,  he  gave  himself  up  to  a  solitary  way  of  living. 
This  was  the  more  remarkable  in  him,  as  he  had  been  a  man  of 
jovial  habits,  fond  of  his  wine  and  visitors,  and  impatient  of 
having  his  numerous  indulgences  contradicted.  But  in  the 
same  temper  perhaps  might  be  found  the  cause  of  his  sorrow  ; 
for  though  he  would  be  impatient  with  his  wife,  as  with  others, 
yet  his  love  for  her  was  one  of  the  gentlest  wills  he  had  ;  and 
the  sweet  and  unaffected  face  which  she  always  turned  upon  his 
anger,  might  have  been  a  thing  more  easy  for  him  to  trespass 
upon  while  living,  than  to  forget,  when  dead  and  gone.  His 
very  anger  towards  her,  compared  with  that  towards  others,  was 
a  relief  to  him.  It  was  rather  a  wish  to  refresh  himself  in  the 
balmy  feeling  of  her  patience,  than  to  make  her  unhappy  her- 
self, or  to  punish  her,  as  some  would  have  done,  for  that  virtuous 
contrast  to  his  own  vice. 

*  The  Saxon  Latin  poet,  we  presume,  professor  of  belles-lettres  at  Frank- 
fort.    We  know  nothing  of  him  except  from  a  biographical  dictionary. 


CHAP.  XIX.]      A  TALE  rOR  A  CHIMNEY  CORNER.  81 

But  whether  he  bethought  himself,  after  her  death,  that  this 
was  a  very  selfish  mode  of  loving  ;  or  whether,  as  some  thought, 
he  had  wearied  out  her  life  with  habits  so  contrary  to  her  own  ; 
or  whether,  as  others  reported,  he  had  put  it  to  a  fatal  risk  by 
some  lordly  piece  of  self-will,  in  consequence  of  which  she  had 
caught  a  fever  on  the  cold  river  during  a  night  of  festivity  ;  he 
surprised  even  those  who  thought  that  he  loved  her,  by  the  ex- 
treme bitterness  of  his  grief.  The  very  mention  of  festivity, 
though  he  was  patient  for  the  first  day  or  two,  afterwards  threw  him 
into  a  passion  of  rage  ;  but  by  degrees  even  his  rage  followed 
his  other  old  habits.  He  was  gentle,  but  ever  silent.  He  ate 
and  drank  but  sufficient  to  keep  him  alive  ;  and  he  used  to  spend 
the  greater  part  of  the  day  in  the  spot  where  his  wife  was 
buried. 

He  was  going  there  one  evening,  in  a  very  melancholy  man- 
ner, with  his  eyes  turned  towards  the  earth,  and  had  just  entered 
the  rails  of  the  burial-ground,  when  he  was  accosted  by  the  mild 
voice  of  somebody  coming  to  meet  him.  "  It  is  a  blessed  even- 
ing, Sir,"  said  the  voice.  The  gentleman  looked  up.  Nobody 
but  himself  was  allowed  to  be  in  the  place  at  that  hour  ;  and 
yet  he  saw,  with  astonishment,  a  young  chorister  approaching 
him.  He  was  going  to  express  some  wonder,  when,  he  said,  the 
modest  though  assured  look  of  the  boy,  and  the  extreme  beauty 
of  his  countenance,  which  glowed  in  the  setting  sun  betbre  him, 
made  an  irresistible  addition  co  the  singular  sweetness  of  his 
voice:  and  he  asked  him  with  an  involuntary  calmness,  and  a 
gesture  of  respect,  not  what  he  did  there,  but  what  he  wished. 
"  Only  to  wish  you  all  good  things,"  answered  the  stranger,  who 
had  now  come  up,  "  and  to  give  you  this  letter."  The  gentle- 
man took  the  letter,  and  saw  upon  it,  with  a  beating  yet  scarcely 
bewildered  heart,  the  handwriting  of  his  wife.  He  raised  his 
eyes  again  to  speak  to  the  boy,  but  he  was  gone.  He  cast  them 
far  and  near  round  the  place,  but  there  were  no  traces  of  a  pas- 
senger. He  then  opened  the  letter ;  and  by  the  divine  light  of 
the  setting  sun,  read  these  words  : 

"  To  my  dear  husband,  who  sorrows  for  his  wife : 

"Otto,  my  husband,  the  soul  you  regret  so  is  returned.     You 


62  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xix 

will  know  the  truth  of  this,  and  be  pi-epared  with  calmness  lo 
see  it,  by  the  divineness  of  the  messenger,  who  has  passed  you. 
You  will  find  me  sitting  in  the  public  walk,  praying  for  you  : 
praying,  that  you  may  never  more  give  way  to  those  gusts  of 
passion,  and  those  curses  against  others,  which  divided  us. 
"  This,  with  a  warm  hand,  from  the  living  Bertha." 

Otto  (for  such,  it  seems,  was  the  gentleman's  name)  went  in- 
stantly, calmly,  quickly,  yet  with  a  sort  of  benumbed  being,  to 
the  public  walk.  He  felt,  but  with  only  a  half-consciousness,  as 
if  he  glided  without  a  body.  But  all  his  spirit  was  awake,  eager, 
intensely  conscious.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  there  had  been  but 
two  things  in  the  world — Life  and  Death  ;  and  that  Death  was 
dead.  All  else  appeared  to  have  been  a  dream.  He  had  awaked 
from  a  waking  state,  and  found  himself  all  eye,  and  spirit,  and 
locomotion.  He  said  to  himself,  once,  as  he  went ;  "  This  is  not 
a  dream.  I  will  ask  my  great  ancestors  to-morrow  to  my  new 
bridal  feast,  for  they  are  alive."  Otto  had  been  calm  at  first, 
but  something  of  old  and  triumphant  feelings  seemed  again  to 
come  over  him.  Was  he  again  too  proud  and  confident  ?  Did 
his  earthly  humors  prevail  again,  when  he  thought  them  least 
upon  him  1     We  shall  see. 

The  Bavarian  arrived  at  the  public  walk.  It  was  full  of  peo- 
ple with  their  wives  and  children,  enjoying  the  beauty  of  the 
evening.  Something  like  common  fear  came  over  him,  as  he 
went  in  and  out  among  them,  looking  at  the  benches  on  each  side. 
It  happened  that  there  was  only  one  person,  a  lady,  sitting  upon 
them.  She  had  her  veil  down  ;  and  his  being  underwent  a 
fierce  but  short  convulsion,  as  he  went  near  her.  Something 
had  a  little  baffled  the  calmer  inspiration  of  the  angel  that  had 
accosted  him :  for  fear  prevailed  at  the  instant,  and  Otto  passed 
on.  He  returned  before  he  had  reached  the  end  of  the  walk, 
and  approached  the  lady  again.  She  was  still  sitting  in  the  same 
quiet  posture,  only  he  thought  she  looked  at  him.  Again  he 
passed  her.  On  his  second  return,  a  grave  and  sweet  courage 
came  upon  him,  and  in  an  under  but  firm  tone  of  inquiry,  he  said, 
'  Bertha?" — "  I  thought  you  had  forgotten  me,"  said  that  well- 
known  and  mellow  yoice,  which  he  had  seemed  as  far  from  ever 


CHAP  XIX.]       A  TALE  FOR  A  CHIMNEY  CORNER.  83 

hearing  again  as  earth  is  from  heaven.  He  took  iier  hand,  which 
grasped  his  in  turn  ;  and  they  wallied  home  in  silence  together, 
the  arm,  which  was  wound  within  his,  giving  warmth  for  vvarmth. 

The  neighbors  seemed  to  have  a  miraculous  want  of  wonder 
at  the  lady's  re-appearance.  Something  was  said  about  a  mock 
funeral,  and  her  having  withdrawn  from  his  company  for  awhile  ; 
but  visitors  came  as  before,  and  his  wife  returned  to  her  house- 
hold affairs.  It  was  only  remarked  that  she  always  looked  pale 
and  pensive.  But  she  was  more  kind  to  all,  even  than  before  ; 
and  her  pensiveness  seemed  rather  the  result  of  some  great  inter- 
nal thought,  than  of  unhappiness. 

For  a  year  or  two,  the  Bavarian  retained  the  better  temper 
which  he  acquired.  His  fortunes  flourished  beyond  his  earliest 
ambition  ;  the  most  amiable  as  well  as  noble  persons  of  the  dis- 
trict were  frequent  visitors  ;  and  people  said,  that  to  be  at  Otto's 
house,  must  be  the  next  thing  to  being  in  heaven.  But  by  degrees 
his  self-will  returned  with  his  prosperity.  He  never  vented  im- 
patience on  his  wife ;  but  he  again  began  to  show,  that  the  dis- 
quietude it  gave  her  to  see  it  vented  on  others,  was  a  secondary 
thing,  in  his  mind,  to  the  indulgence  of  it.  Whether  it  was,  that 
his  grief  for  her  loss  had  been  rather  remorse  than  affection,  so 
he  held  himself  secure  if  he  treated  her  well ;  or  whether  he  was 
at  all  times  rather  proud  of  her,  than  fond  ;  or  whatever  was  the 
cause  which  again  set  his  antipathies  above  his  sympathies,  cer- 
tain it  was,  that  his  old  habits  returned  upon  him  ;  not  so  often, 
indeed,  but  with  greater  violence  and  pride  when  they  did.  These 
were  the  only  ti-mes,  at  which  his  wife  was  observed  to  show  any 
ordinary  symptoms  of  uneasiness. 

At  length,  one  day,  some  strong  rebuff  which  he  had  received 
from  an  alienated  neighbor  threw  him  into  such  a  transport  of 
rage,  that  he  gave  way  to  the  most  bitter  imprecations,  crying 
with  a  loud  voice — "  This  treatment  to  me  too  !    To  me  !     To 

me,  who  if  the  world  knew  all" At  these  words  his  wife,  who 

had  in  vain  laid  her  hand  upon  his,  and  looked  him  with  dreary 
earnestness  in  the  face,  suddenly  glided  from  the  room.  He 
and  two  or  three  who  were  present,  were  struck  with  a  dumb 
honor.  They  said,  she  did  not  walk  out,  nor  vanish  suddenly; 
but  gli.kJ,  as  one  who  could  dispense  with  the  use  of  fpet.    A.ft' 


SI  THE  INDICATOR  [chap   xix 

a  moment's  pause,  the  others  proposed  to  him  to  follow  her.  He 
made  a  movement  of  despair ;  but  they  went.  There  was  a 
short  passage,  which  turned  to  the  right  into  her  favorite  room. 
They  knocked  at  the  door  twice  or  three  times,  and  received  no 
answer.  At  last  one  of  them  gently  opened  it ;  and  looking  in, 
thoy  saw  her,  as  they  thought,  standing  before  a  fire,  which  was 
the  only  light  in  the  room.  Yet  she  stood  so  far  from  it,  as  rather 
to  be  in  the  middle  of  the  room  ;  only  the  face  was  towards  the 
fire,  and  she  seemed  looking  upon  it.  They  addressed  her,  but 
received  no  answer.  They  stepped  gently  towards  her,  and  still 
received  none.  The  figure  stood  dumb  and  unmoved.  At  last, 
one  of  them  went  round  in  front,  and  instantly  fell  on  the  floor. 
The  figure  was  without  body.  A  hollow  hood  was  left  instead  of 
a  face.     The  clothes  were  standing  upright  by  themselves. 

That  room  was  blocked  up  for  ever,  for  the  clothes,  if  it  might 
be  so,  to  moulder  away.  It  was  called  the  Room  of  the  Lady's 
Figure.  The  house,  after  the  gentleman's  death,  was  long  unin- 
habited, and  at  length  burnt  by  the  peasants  in  an  insurrection. 
As  for  himself,  he  died  about  nine  months  after,  a  gentle  and 
child-like  penitent.  He  had  never  stirred  from  the  house  since ; 
and  nobody  would  venture  to  go  near  him,  but  a  man  who  had 
the  reputation  of  being  a  reprobate.  It  was  from  this  man  that 
the  particulars  of  the  story  came  first.  He  would  distribute  the 
gentleman's  alms  in  great  abundance  to  any  strange  poor  who 
would  accept  them ;  for  most  of  the  neighbors  held  them  in 
horror.  He  tried  all  he  could  to  get  the  parents  among  them  to 
let  some  of  their  little  children,  or  a  single  one  of  them,  go  to  see 
his  employer.  They  said  he  even  asked  it  one  day  with  tears 
in  his  eyes.  But  they  shuddered  to  think  of  it  ;  and  the  matter 
was  not  mended,  when  this  profane  person,  in  a  fit  of  impatience, 
said  one  day  that  he  would  have  a  child  of  his  own  on  purpose. 
His  employer,  however,  died  in  a  day  or  two.  They  did  not 
believe  a  word  he  told  them  of  all  the  Bavarian's  gentleness, 
looking  upon  the  latter  as  a  sort  of  Ogre,  and  upon  his  agent  as 
little  better,  though  a  good-natured  looking  earnest  kind  of  per- 
son. It  was  said  many  years  after,  that  this  man  had  been  a 
friend  of  the  Bavarian's  when  young,  and  had  been  deserted  by 
him.     And  the  young  believed  it,  whatever  the  old  might  do. 


CHAP   XX.]        THIEVES,  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN  85 


CHAPTER   XX. 

Thieves,  Ancient  and  Modern. 

Havino  met  in  the  Harleian  Miscellany  with  an  account  of  a 
pet  thief  of  ours,  the  famous  Du  Vail,  who  flourished  in  the  time 
of  Charles  the  Second,  and  wishing  to  introduce  him  worthily  to 
the  readers,  it  has  brought  to  mind  such  a  number  of  the  light- 
fingered  gentry,  his  predecessors,  that  we  almost  feel  hustled  by 
the  thoughts  of  them.  Our  subject,  we  may  truly  fear,  will  run 
away  with  us.  We  feel  beset,  like  poor  Tasso  in  his  dungeon  ; 
and  are  not  sure  that  our  paper  will  not  suddenly  be  conveyed 
away  from  under  our  pen.  Already  we  miss  some  excellent 
remarks,  which  we  should  have  made  in  this  place.  If  the 
reader  should  meet  with  any  of  that  kind  hereafter,  upon  the  like 
subject,  in  another  man's  writings,  twenty  to  one  they  are  stolen 
from  us,  and  ought  to  have  enriched  this  our  plundered  exor- 
dium. He  that  steals  an  author's  purse,  may  emphatically  be 
said  to  steal  trash ;  but  he  that  filches  from  him  his  good  things 

Alas,  we  thought  our  subject  would  be  running  away  ■with 

us.  We  must  keep  firm.  We  must  put  something  heavier  in 
our  remarks,  as  the  little  thin  Grecian  philosopher  used  to  put 
lead  in  his  pockets,  lest  the  wind  should  steal  him. 

The  more  ruffianly  crowd  of  thieves  should  go  first,  as 
pioneers  ;  but  they  can  hardly  be  looked  upon  as  progenitors  of 
our  gentle  Du  Vail ;  and  besides,  with  all  their  ferocity,  some 
of  them  assume  a  grandeur,  from  standing  in  the  remote  shadows 
of  antiquity.  There  was  the  famous  son,  for  instance,  of  Vul- 
can and  Medusa,  whom  Virgil  calls  the  dire  aspect  of  half-human 
Cacus — SemihominisCacifacies  dira.  (^nei^,  B.VIIL,  V.  194.) 
He  was  the  raw-head-and-bloody-bones  of  ancient  fable  He 
lived  in  a  cave  by  Mount  Aventine,  breathing  out  fiery  smoke, 
and  haunting  king  Evander's  highway  like  the  Apollyon  of 
Pilgrim's  Progress. 


86  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap  xt 

Semperque  recenti 
Caede  tepebat  humus ;  foribusque  adfixa  superbis 
Ora  virum  tristi  pendebant  pallida  tabo. 

The  place  about  was  ever  in  a  plash 

Of  steaming  blood  ;  and  o'er  the  insulting  door 

Hung  pallid  liuman  heads,  defaced  with  dreary  gore. 

He  stole  some  of  the  cows  of  Hercules,  and  dragged  therr 
backwards  into  his  cave  to  prevent  discovery ;  but  the  oxen 
happening  to  low,  the  cows  answered  them  ;  and  the  demigod, 
detecting  the  miscreant  in  his  cave,  strangled  him  after  a  hard 
encounter.  This  is  one  of  the  earliest  sharping  tricks  upon 
record. 

Autolycus,  the  son  of  Mercury  (after  whom  Shakspeare 
christened  his  merry  rogue  in  the  Winter's  Tale),  was  a  thief 
suitable  to  the  greater  airiness  of  his  origin.  He  is  said  to  have 
performed  tricks  which  must  awake  the  envy  even  of  horse- 
dealers  ;  for  in  pretending  to  return  a  capital  horse  which  he 
had  stolen,  he  palmed  upon  the  owners  a  sorry  jade  of  an  ass ; 
which  was  gravely  received  by  those  flats  of  antiquity.  Another 
time  he  went  still  further  ;  for  having  conveyed  away  a  hand- 
some bride,  he  sent  in  exchange  an  old  lady  elaborately  hideous  ; 
yet  the  husband  did  not  find  out  the  trick  till  he  had  got  off. 

Autolycus  himself,  however,  was  outwitted  by  Sisyphus,  the 
son  of  ^olus.  Autolycus  was  in  the  habit  of  stealing  his 
neighbors'  cattle,  and  altering  the  marks  upon  them.  Among 
others  he  stole  some  from  Sisyphus  ;  but  notwithstanding  his 
usual  precautions,  he  was  astonished  to  find  the  latter  come  and 
pick  out  his  oxen,  as  if  nothing  liad  happened.  He  had  marked 
them  under  the  hoof.  Autolycus,  it  seems,  had  the  usual  gene- 
rosity of  genius  ;  and  was  so  pleased  with  this  evidence  of  supe- 
rior cunning,  that  some  say  he  gave  him  in  marriage  his  daugh- 
ter Anticlea,  who  was  afterwards  the  wife  of  Laertes,  the  father 
of  Ulysses.  According  to  others,  however,  he  only  favored  him 
with  his  daughter's  company  for  a  time,  a  fashion  not  yet  extinct 
in  some  primitive  countries  ;  and  it  was  a  reproach  made  against 
Ulysses,  that  Laertes  was  only  his  pretended,  and  Sisyphus  liia 
real  father.  Sisyphus  has  the  credit  of  being  the  greatest  knave 
of  antiquity.    His  famous  pun  shment  in  hell,  of  being  compelleil 


CHAP.  XX.]        THIEVES,  ANCIFxVT  AND  MODERN.  87 

to  roll  a  stone  up  a  hill  to  all  eternity,  and  seeing  it  always  go 
down  again,  is  attributed  by  some  to  a  characteristic  trait,  which 
he  could  not  help  playing  off  upon  Pluto.  It  was  supposed  by 
the  ancients,  that  a  man's  ghost  wandered  in  a  melancholy  man- 
ner upon  the  banks  of  the  Styx,  as  long  as  his  corpse  remained 
without  burial.  Sisyphus  on  his  death-bed  purposely  charged  hia 
wife  to  leave  him  unburied;  and  then  begged  Pluto's  permission 
to  go  back  to  earth,  on  his  parole,  merely  to  punish  her  for  so 
scandalous  a  neglect.  Like  the  lawyer,  however,  who  contrived 
to  let  his  hat  fall  inside  the  door  of  heaven,  and  got  St.  Peter's 
permission  to  step  in  for  it,  Sisyphus  would  not  return  :  and  so 
when  Pluto  had  him  again,  he  paid  him  for  the  trick  with  setting 
him  upon  this  everlasting  job. 

The  exploits  of  Mercury  himself,  the  god  of  cunning,  may  be 
easily  imagined  to  surpass  everything  achieved  by  profaner 
hands.  Homer,  in  the  hymn  to  his  honor,  has  given  a  delight- 
ful account  of  his  prematurity  in  swindling.  He  had  not  been 
born  many  hours  before  he  stole  Vulcan's  tools,  Mars'  sword, 
and  Jupiter's  sceptre.  He  beat  Cupid  in  a  wrestling  bout  on 
the  same  day  ;  and  Venus  caressing  him  for  his  conquest,  he 
returned  the  embrace  by  filching  away  her  girdle.  He  would 
also  have  stolen  Jupiter's  thunderbolts,  but  was  afraid  of  burn- 
ing his  fingers.  On  the  evening  of  his  birth-day,  he  drove  off 
the  cattle  of  Admetus,  which  Apollo  was  tending.  The  good- 
humored  god  of  wit  endeavored  to  frighten  him  into  restoring 
them ;  but  could  not  help  laughing  when,  in  the  midst  of  his 
threatenings,  he  found  himself  without  his  quiver. 

The  history  of  thieves  is  to  be  found  either  in  that  of  romance, 
or  in  the  details  of  the  history  of  cities.  The  latter  have  not 
come  down  to  us  from  the  ancient  world,  with  some  exceptions 
in  the  comic  writers,  immaterial  to  our  present  purpose,  and  in 
the  loathsome  rhetoric  of  Petronius.  The  finest  thief  in  old  his- 
tory is  the  pirate  who  made  that  famous  answer  to  Alexander, 
in  which  he  said  that  the  conqueror  was  only  the  mightier  thief 
of  the  two.  The  story  of  the  thieving  architect  in  Herodotus 
we  will  tell  another  time.  We  can  call  to  mind  no  othei 
thieves  in  the  Greek  and  Latin  writers  (always  excepting  politi- 
cal ones)  excppt  some  paltry  follows    wlio  stole  napkins  at  din- 


88  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xx 

ner ;  and  the  robbers  in  Apuleius,  the  precursors  of  those  in  Gil 
Bias.  When  we  come,  however,  to  the  times  of  the  Arabians 
and  of  chivalry,  they  abound  in  all  their  glory,  both  great  and 
small.  Who  among  us  does  not  know  by  heart  the  story  of  the 
never-to-be-forgotten  Forty  Thieves,  with  their  treasure  in  the 
green  wood,  their  anxious  observer,  their  magical  opening  of 
the  door,  their  captain,  their  concealment  in  the  jar,  and  the 
scalding  oil,  that,  as  it  were,  extinguished  -them  groaning,  one 
by  one  ?  Have  we  not  all  ridden  backwards  and  forwards  with 
them  to  the  wood  a  hundred  times  ? — watched  them,  with  fear  and 
trembling,  from  the  tree  ? — sown  up,  blindfolded,  the  four 
quarters  of  the  dead  body  ? — and  said,  "  Open  Sesame,"  to 
every  door  at  school  ?  May  we  ride  with  them  again  and  again  ; 
or  we  shall  lose  our  appetite  for  some  of  the  best  things  in  the 
world. 

We  pass  over  those  interlopers  in  our  English  family,  the 
Danes  ;  as  well  as  Rolla  the  Norman,  and  other  freebooters, 
who  only  wanted  less  need  of  robbery,  to  become  respectable 
conquerors.  In  fact,  they  did  so,  as  they  got  on.  We  have 
also  no  particular  worthy  to  select  from  among  that  host  of 
petty  chieftains,  who  availed  themselves  of  their  knightly  cas- 
tles and  privileges,  to  commit  all  sortsofunchivalrous  outrages. 
These  are  the  giants  of  modern  romance  ;  and  the  Veglios, 
Malengins,  and  Pinabellos,  of  Pulci,  Spenser,  and  Ariosto. 
They  survived  in  the  petty  states  of  Italy  a  long  while ;  gradu- 
ally took  a  less  solitary,  though  hardly  less  ferocious  shape, 
among  the  fierce  political  partisans  recorded  by  Dante  ;  and  al 
length  became  represented  by  the  men  of  desperate  fortunes, 
who  made  such  a  figure,  between  the  gloomy  and  the  gallant,  in 
Mrs.  RadclifTe's  Mysteries  of  Udolpho.  The  breaking  up  of 
the  late  kingdom  of  Italy,  with  its  dependencies,  has  again 
revived  them  in  some  degree  ;  but  not,  we  believe,  in  any  shape 
above  common  robbery.  The  regular  modern  thief  seems  to 
make  his  appearance  for  the  first  time  in  the  imaginary  charac- 
ter of  Brunello,  as  described  by  Boiardo  and  Ariosto.  He  is  a 
fellow  that  steals  every  valuable  that  comes  in  his  way.  The 
way  in  which  he  robs  Sacripant,  king  of  Circassia,  of  his  hoi-«e, 
has  been   ridiculed  by  Cervantes  ;  if  indeed  he  did  not  rather 


CHAP.  XX.]        THIEVES,  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN.  85 

repeat  it  with  great  zest :  for  his  use  of  the  theft  is  really  not 
such  a  caricature  as  in  Boiardo  and  his  great  follower.  While 
Sancho  is  sitting  lumpishly  asleep  upon  the  back  of  his  friend 
Dapple,  Gines  de  Passamonte,  the  famous  thief,  comes  and 
gently  withdraws  the  donkey  from  under  him,  leaving  the  som- 
niculous  squire  propped  upon  a  saddle  with  four  sticks.  His 
consternation  on  waking  may  be  guessed.  But  in  the  Italian 
poets,  the  Circassian  prince  has  only  fallen  into  a  deep  meditai- 
tion,  when  Brunello  draws  away  his  steed.  Ariosto  appears  to 
have  thought  this  extravagance  a  hazardous  one,  though  he 
could  not  deny  himself  the  pleasure  of  repeating  it ;  for  he  has 
made  Sacripant  blush,  when  called  upon  to  testify  how  the 
horse  was  stolen  from  him.  (^Orlando  Furio.,  Lib.  XXVII.,  St. 
84.) 

In  the  Italian  Novels  and  the  old  French  Tales,  are  a  variety 
of  extremely  amusing  stories  of  thieves,  all  most  probably  found- 
ed on  fact.  We  will  give  a  specimen  as  we  go,  by  way  of 
making  this  article  the  completer.  A  doctor  of  laws  in  Bologna 
had  become  rich  enough,  by  scraping  money  together,  to  indulge 
himself  in  a  grand  silver  cup,  which  he  sent  home  one  day  to 
his  wife  from  the  goldsmith's.  There  were  two  sharping  fel- 
lows prowling  about  that  day  for  a  particular  object ;  and  getting 
scent  of  the  cup,  they  laid  their  heads  together,  to  contrive  how 
they  might  indulge  themselves  in  it  instead.  One  of  them 
accordingly  goes  to  a  fishmonger's,  and  buys  a  fine  lamprey, 
which  he  takes  to  the  doctor's  wife,  with  her  husband's  compli- 
ments,  and  he  would  bring  a  company  of  his  brother  doctors 
with  him  to  dinner,  requesting  in  the  meantime  that  she  would 
send  back  the  cup  by  the  bearer,  as  he  had  forgotten  to  have  his 
arms  engraved  upon  it.  The  good  lady,  happy  to  obey  all  these 
pleasing  impulses  on  the  part  of  master  doctor,  takes  in  the  fish, 
and  sends  out  the  cup,  with  equal  satisfaction  ;  and  sets  about 
getting  the  dinner  ready.  The  doctor  comes  home  at  his  usual 
hour,  and  finding  his  dinner  so  much  better  than  ordinary,  asks 
with  an  air  of  wonder,  where  was  the  necessity  of  going  to  that 
expense  :  upon  which  the  wife,  putting  on  an  air  of  wonder  in  her 
tarn,  and  proud  of  possessing  the  new  cup,  asks  him  where  are  all 
ihose  brother  doctors,  whom  he  said  he  should  bring  with  him. 


90  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  xx. 

"What  does  the  fool  mean?"  said  the  testy  old  gentleman. 
"  Mean  !"  rejoined  the  wife — "  what  does  this  mean  ?"  pointing 
to  the  fish.  The  doctor  looked  down  with  his  old  eyes  at  the  lam- 
prey. "  God  knows,"  said  he,  "  what  it  means.  I  am  sure  I 
don't  know  what  it  means  more  than  any  other  fish,  except  that  I 
shall  have  to  pay  a  pretty  sum  for  every  mouthful  you  eat  of  it. '» 
— "Why,  it  was  your  own  doing,  husband,"  said  the  wife;'* 
"  and  you  will  remember  it,  perhaps,  when  you  recollect  that  the 
same  man  that  brought  me  the  fish,  was  to  take  away  the  cup  to 
have  your  name  engraved  upon  it."  At  this  the  doctor  started 
back,  with  his  eyes  as  wide  open  as  the  fish's,  exclaiming, 
"  And  you  gave  it  him,  did  you  ?" — "  To  be  sure  I  did,"  return- 
ed the  good  housewife.  The  old  doctor  here  began  a  passionate 
speech,  which  he  suddenly  broke  off ;  and  after  stamping  up 
and  down  the  room,  and  crying  out  that  he  was  an  undone  advo- 
cate, ran  quivering  out  into  the  street  like  one  frantic,  asking 
everybody  if  he  had  seen  a  man  with  a  lamprey.  The  two 
rogues  were  walking  all  this  time  in  the  neighborhood  ;  and 
seeing  the  doctor  set  off,  in  his  frantic  fit,  to  the  goldsmith's,  and 
knowing  that  he  who  bi'ought  the  lamprey  had  been  well  disguis- 
ed, they  began  to  ask  one  another,  in  the  jollity  of  their  triumph, 
what  need  there  was  for  losing  a  good  lamprey,  because  they  had 
gained  a  cup.  The  other  therefore  went  to  the  doctor's  house, 
and  putting  on  a  face  of  good  news,  told  the  wife  that  the  cup 
was  found.  "  Master  doctor,"  said  he,  "  bade  me  come  and  tell 
you  that  it  was  but  a  joke  of  your  old  friend  What's-his  name." 
— "  Castellani,  I  warrant  me,"  said  the  wife,  with  a  face  broad 
with  delight.  "  The  same,"  returned  he  : — "  master  doctor  says 
that  Signer  Castellani,  and  the  other  gentlemen  he  spoke  of,  are 
waiting  for  you  at  the  Signor's  house,  where  they  propose  to 
laugh  away  the  choler  they  so  merrily  raised,  with  a  good  dinner 
and  wine,  and  to  that  end  they  have  sent  me  for  the  lamprey." — 
"  Take  it  in  God's  name,"  said  the  good  woman  ;  "  I  am  heartily 
glad  to  see  it  go  out  of  the  house,  and  shall  follow  it  myself  speed- 
ily." So  saying,  she  gave  him  the  fine  hot  fish,  with  some 
sauce,  between  two  dishes  ;  and  the  knave,  who  felt  already 
round  the  corner  with  glee,  slid  it  under  his  cloak,  and  made  the 
best  of  his  waj"  to  his  companion,  who  lifted  up  his  hands  and  eyes 


CHAP.  XX.]        THIEVES,  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN.  91 

at  sight  cf  him,  and  asked  twenty  questions  in  a  breath,  and 
chuckled,  and  slapped  his  thigh,  and  snapped  his  fingers  for  joy, 
to  think  -what  a  pair  of  fools  two  rogues  had  to  do  with.  Little 
did  the  despairing  doctor,  on  his  return  home,  guess  what  thoy 
wore  saying  of  him  as  he  passed  the  wall  of  the  house  in  which 
they  were  feasting.  "  Heyday !"  cried  the  wife,  smiling  all 
abroad,  as  she  saw  him  entering,  "  what,  art  thou  come  to  fetch 
me  then,  bone  of  my  bone  ?  Well ;  if  this  isn't  the  gallantest 
day  I  have  seen  many  a  year  !     It  puts  me  in  mind — it  puts  nrje  in 

mind" Here   the  chirping  old  lady  was  about  to  remind  the 

doctor  of  the  days  of  his  youth,  holding  out  her  arms  and  raising 
her  quivering  voice,  when  (we  shudder  to  relate)  she  received  a 
considerable  cuff  on  the  left  cheek.  "You  make  me  mad," 
cried  the  doctor,  "  with  your  eternal  idiotical  nonsense.  What 
do  you  mean  by  coming  to  fetch  you,  and  the  gallantest  day  oi 
your  life  ?  May  the  devil  fetch  you,  and  me,  and  that  invisible 
fiend  that  stole  the  cup." — "  What !"  exclaimed  the  wife,  sud- 
denly changing  her  tone  from  a  vociferous  complaint  which  she 
had  unthinkingly  set  up,  "  did  you  send  nobody  then  for  the 
lamprey  ?"  Here  the  doctor  cast  his  eyes  upon  the  bereaved 
table  ;  and  unable  to  bear  the  shame  of  this  additional  loss, 
however  trivial,  began  tearing  his  hair  and  beard,  and  hopping 
about  the  room,  giving  his  wife  a  new  and  scandalous  epithet 
at  every  step,  as  if  he  was  dancing  to  a  catalogue  of  her  imper- 
fections. The  story  shook  all  the  shoulders  in  Bologna  for  a 
month  after. 

As  we  find,  by  the  length  to  which  this  article  has  already 
reached,  that  we  should  otherwise  be  obliged  to  compress  our 
recollections  of  Spanish,  French,  and  English  thieves,  into  a 
compass  that  would  squeeze  them  into  the  merest  dry  notices, 
we  will  postpone  them  at  once  to  our  next  number ;  and  relate 
another  story  from  the  same  Italian  novelist  that  supplied  our 
last.*  Our  author  is  Massuccio  of  Salerno,  a  novelist  who  dis- 
putes with  Bandello  the  rank  next  in  popularity  to  Boccaccio. 

*  In  the  original  edition  of  the  Indicator  this  article  was  divided  into 
three  numbers.     Perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  had  the  division  been 
retained  ;  but  perplexities  occur  in  hastily  correcting  a  work  for  a  new  edi 
tion,  which  tJie  reader  will  have  the  goodness  to  excuse. 

9 


92  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xx 

We  have  not  the  original  by  us,  and  must  be  obliged  to  an  Eng- 
lish work  for  the  groundwork  of  our  story,  as  we  have  been  to 
Paynter's  Palace  of  Pleasure  for  the  one  just  related.  But  we 
take  the  liberty  usual  with  the  repeaters  of  these  stories;  we 
retain  the  incidents,  but  tell  them  in  our  own  way,  and  imagine 
what  might  happen  in  the  intervals. 

Two  Neapolitan  sharpers,  having  robbed  a  Genoese  merchant 
of  his  purse,  made  the  best  of  their  way  to  Sienna,  where  they 
arrive  during  the  preaching  of  St.  Bernardin.  One  of  them 
attends  a  sermon  with  an  air  of  conspicuous  modesty  and  devo- 
tion, and  afterwards  waits  upon  the  preacher,  and  addresses  him 
thus  :  "  Reverend  father,  you  see  before  you  a  man,  poor  indeed, 
but  honest.  I  do  not  mean  to  boast ;  God  knows,  I  have  no  rea- 
son. Who  upon  earth  has  reason,  unless  it  be  one  who  will  be 
the  last  to  boast,  like  yourself,  holy  father  ?"  Here  the  saintly 
orator  shook  his  head.  "  I  do  not  mean,"  resumed  the  stranger, 
"  to  speak  even  of  the  reverend  and  illustrious  Bernardin,  but  as 
of  a  man  among  men.  For  my  part,  I  am,  as  it  were,  a  creeo- 
ing  thing  among  them  ;  and  yet  1  am  honest.  If  I  have  any 
virtue,  it  is  that.  I  crawl  right  onward  in  my  path,  looking 
neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left ;  and  yet  I  have  my  temptations, 
Reverend  father,  I  have  found  this  purse.  I  will  not  deny,  that 
being  often  in  want  of  the  common  necessaries  of  life,  and 
having  been  obliged  last  night,  in  particular,  to  sit  down  faint  at 
the  city  gates,  for  want  of  my  ordinary  crust  and  onion,  which 
I  had  given  to  one  (God  help  him)  still  worse  off  than  myself,  I 
did  cast  some  looks — I  did,  I  say,  just  open  the  purse,  and  cast 
a  wistful  eye  at  one  of  those  shining  pieces,  that  lay  one  over 
the  other  inside,  with  something  like  a  wish  that  I  could  procure 
myself  a  meal  with  it,  unknown  to  the  lawful  proprietor.  But 
my  conscience,  thank  Heaven,  prevailed.  I  have  to  make  two 
requests  to  you,  reverend  father.  First,  that  you  will  absolve 
me  for  this  my  offence  ;  and  second,  that  you  will  be  pleased  to 
mention  in  one  of  your  discourses,  that  a  poor  sinner  from  Milan, 
on  his  road  to  hear  them,  has  found  a  purse,  and  would  willingly 
restore  it  to  the  right  owner.  I  would  fain  give  double  the  con- 
tents  of  it  to  find  him  out ;  but  then,  what  can  I  do  ?  All  the 
wealth  I  have  consists  in  my  honesty.     Be  pleased,  most  illusu 


CHAP.  XX.]       THIEVES,  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN.  93 

trioue  father,  to  mention  this  in  your  discourse,  as  modestly  as 
becomes  my  nothingness ;  and  to  add  especially,  that  the  purse 
was  founi  on  the  road  from  Milan,  lying,  miraculously  as  it 
were,  upon  a  sunny  bank,  open  to  the  view  of  all,  under  an 
olive-tree,  not  far  from  a  little  fountain,  the  pleasant  noise  of 
which  perad venture  had  invited  the  owner  to  sleep."  The  good 
father,  at  hearing  this  detail,  smiled  at  the  anxious  sincerity  of 
the  poor  pilgrim,  and,  giving  him  the  required  absolution,  promis- 
ed to  his  utmost  to  bring  forth  the  proprietor.  In  his  next  set- 
mon,  he  accordingly  dwelt  with  such  eloquence  on  the  opportuni- 
ties thrown  in  the  way  of  the  rich  who  lose  purses  to  behave 
nobly,  that  his  congregation  several  times  half  rose  from  their 
seats  out  of  enthusiasm,  and  longed  for  some  convenient  loss  of 
property  that  might  enable  them  to  show  their  disinterestedness. 
At  the  conclusion  of  it,  however,  a  man  stepped  forward,  and 
said,  that  anxious  as  he  was  to  do  justice  to  the  finder  of  the 
purse,  which  he  knew  to  be  his  the  moment  he  saw  it  (only  he 
was  loth  to  interrupt  the  reverend  father),  he  had  claims  upon 
him  at  home  in  the  person  of  his  wife  and  thirteen  children, — 
fourteen  perhaps,  he  might  now  say, — which,  to  his  great  sor- 
row, prevented  him  from  giving  the  finder  more  than  a  quarter 
of  a  piece ;  this  however  he  offered  him  with  the  less  scruple, 
since  he  saw  the  seraphic  disposition  of  the  reverend  preacher 
and  his  congregation,  who  he  had  no  doubt  would  make  ample 
amends  for  this  involuntary  deficiency  on  the  part  of  a  poor 
family  man,  the  whole  portion  of  whose  wife  and  children  might 
be  said  to  be  wrapped  up  in  that  purse.  His  sleep  under  the  olive- 
tree  had  been  his  last  for  these  six  nights  (here  the  other  man 
said,  with  a  tremulous  joy  of  acknowledgment,  that  it  was 
indeed  just  six  nights  since  he  had  found  it) ;  and  Heaven  only 
knew  when  he  should  have  had  another,  if  his  children's  bread, 
BO  to  speak,  had  not  been  found  again."  With  these  words,  the 
sharper  (for  such,  of  course,  he  was)  presented  the  quarter  of  a 
piece  to  his  companion,  who  made  all  but  a  prostration  for  it ; 
and  hastened  with  the  purse  out  of  the  church.  The  other 
man's  circumstances  were  then  inquired  into,  and  as  he  was 
found  to  have  almost  as  many  children  as  the  purse-owner,  and 
no  possessions  at  all,  as  he  said,  but  his   honesty, — all  his  chil- 


94 


THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xx 


dren  being  equally  poor  and  pious, — a  considerable  subscHption 
was  raised  for  him  ;  so  large,  indeed,  that  on  the  appearance  of 
a  new  claimant  next  day,  the  pockets  of  the  good  people  were 
found  empty.      This  was  no  other  than  the  Genoese  merchant, 
who  havino-  turned  back  on  his  road  when  he  missed  his  purse, 
did  not  stop  till  he  came  to  Sienna,  and  heard  the  news  of  the 
day    before.     Imagine  the    feelings   of  the   deceived    people! 
Saint  Bernardin  was  convinced  that  the  two  cheats  were  devils 
in  disguise.     The  resident  canon  had  thought  pretty  nearly  as 
much°all  along,  but  had  held  his  tongue,  and  now  hoped  it  would 
be  a  lesson  to  people  not  to  listen  to  everybody  who  could  talk, 
especially  to  the  neglect  of  Saint  Antonio's  monastery.     As  to 
the  people  themselves,  they  thought  variously.     Most  of  them 
were  mortified  at  having   been   cheated :  and  some  swore  they 
never  would  be  cheated   again,  let  appearances  be  what  they 
might.     Others  thought  that  this  was  a  resolution  somewhat  equi- 
vocal, and  more  convenient  than  happy.     For  our  parts,  we 
think  the  last  were  right :  and  this  reminds  us  of  a  true  English 
story,  more  good  than  striking,  which  we  heard  a  short  while 
ago   from   a  friend.     He  knew  a  man  of  rugged  manners,  but 
good  heart  (not  that  the  two  things,  as   a  lover  of  parentheses 
will  say,  are  at  all  bound  to  go  together),  who  had  a  wife  some- 
what given  to  debating  with  hackney-coachmen,  and  disputing 
acts  of  settlement  respecting  half-miles,  and  quarter-miles,  and 
abominable  additional  sixpences.     The  good  housewife  was  lin- 
gering at  the  door,  and  exclaiming  against  one  of  these  mon- 
strous charioteers,  whose  hoarse   low  voice  was  heard  at  inter- 
vals, full  of  lying  protestations  and  bad  weather,  when  the  hus- 
band called  out  from  a  back-room,  "  Never  mind  there,  never 
mind  : — let  her  be  cheated  ;  let  her  be  cheated." 

This  is  a  digression  :  but  it  is  as  well  to  introduce  it,  in  order  to 
take  away  a  certain  bitterness  out  of  the  mouth  of  the  other's  moral. 
We  now  come  to  a  very  urtromantic  set  of  rogues  ;  the  Spanish 
ones.  In  a  poetical  sense,  at  least,  they  are  unromantic  ;  though 
doubtless  the  mountains  of  Spain  have  seen  as  picturesque  vaga- 
I)onds  in  their  time  as  any.  There  are  the  robbers  in  txil  Bias, 
who  have,  at  least,  a  respectable  cavern,  and  loads  of  polite 
superfluities.     Who  can  forget  the  lofty-named  Captain  Rolando, 


CHAP.  XX.]       THIEVES,  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN.  .i^ 

with  his  sturdy  height  and  his  whiskers,  showing  with  a  lighted 
torch  his  treasure  to  the  timid  stripling,  Gil  Bias  ?  The  most 
illustrious  theft  in  Spanish  story  is  one  recorded  of  no  less  a 
person  than  the  fine  old  national  hero,  the  Cid.  As  the  suffer- 
ers were  Jews,  it  might  be  thought  that  his  conscience  would  noi 
have  hurt  him  in  those  days  ;  but  "  My  Cid  "  was  a  kind  of 
early  soldier  in  behalf  of  sentiment ;  and  though  he  went  to  work 
roughly,  he  meant  nobly  and  kindly,  "  God  knows,"  said  he, 
on  the  present  occasion,  "  I  do  this  thing  more  of  necessity  than 
of  wilfulness  ;  but  by  God's  help  I  shall  redeem  all."  The  case 
was  this.  The  Cid,  who  was  too  good  a  subject  to  please  his 
master,  the  king,  had  quarrelled  with  him,  or  rather,  had  been 
banished  ;  and  nobody  was  to  give  him  house-room  or  food.  A 
number  of  friends,  however,  followed  him ;  and  by  the  help  of 
his  nephew,  Martin  Antolinez,  he  proposed  to  raise  some  money. 
Martin  accordingly  negotiated  the  business  with  a  couple  of  rich 
Jews,  who,  for  a  deposite  of  two  chests  full  of  spoil,  which  they 
were  not  to  open  for  a  year,  on  account  of  political  circumstan- 
ces, agreed  to  advance  six  hundred  marks.  "  Well,  then,"  said 
Martin  Antolinez,  "  ye  see  that  the  night  is  advancing  ;  the  Cid 
is  in  haste,  give  us  the  marks."  "  This  is  not  the  way  of  busi- 
ness," said  they  ;  we  must  take  first,  and  then  give."  Martin 
accordingly  goes  with  them  to  the  Cid,  who  in  the  meantime  has 
filled  a  couple  of  heavy  chests  with  sand.  The  Cid  smiled  as 
they  kissed  his  hand,  and  said,  "  Ye  see  I  am  going  out  of  the 
land  because  of  the  king's  displeasure  ;  but  I  shall  leave  some- 
thing with  ye."  The  Jews  made  a  suitable  answer,  and  were 
then  desired  to  take  the  chests;  but,  though  strong  men,  they 
could  not  raise  them  from  the  ground.  This  put  them  in  such 
spirits,  that  after  telling  out  the  six  hundred  marks  (which  Don 
Martin  took  without  weighing),  they  offered  the  Cid  a  present  of  a 
fine  red  skin  ;  and  upon  Don  Martin's  suggesting  that  he  thought 
his  own  services  in  the  business  merited  a  pair  of  hose,  they  con- 
sulted a  minute  with  each  other,  in  order  to  do  everything  judi- 
ciously, and  then  gave  him  money  enough  to  buy,  not  only  the 
hose,  but  a  rich  doublet  and  good  cloak  into  the  bargain.* 

•  See  Mr.  Southey's  excellent  compilation  entitled  The  Chronicles  of  the 
Cid,  Book  III.,  Sec.  21.    The  version  at  the  end  of  the  book,  attributed  to  Mr. 

9* 


96  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  x> 

The  regular  sharping  rogues,  however,  that  abound  in  Spanish 
books  of  adventure,  have  one  species  of  romance  about  them  of 
a  very  peculiar  nature.  It  may  be  called,  we  fear,  as  far  as 
Spain  is  concerned,  a  "  romance  of  real  life."  We  allude  to 
the  absolute  want  and  hunger  which  is  so  often  the  original  of  their 
sin.  A  vein  of  this  craving  nature  runs  throughout  most  of  the 
Spanish  novels.  In  other  countries  theft  is  generally  represent- 
ed as  the  result  of  an  abuse  of  plenty,  or  of  some  other  kind  of 
profligacy,  or  absolute  ruin.  But  it  seems  to  be  an  understood 
thing,  that  to  be  p(X)r  in  Spain  is  to  be  in  want  of  the  common- 
est necessaries  of  life.  If  a  poor  man,  here  and  there,  happens 
not  to  be  in  so  destitute  a  state  as  the  rest,  he  thinks  himself 
bound  to  maintain  the  popular  character  for  an  appetite,  and 
manifests  the  most  prodigious  sense  of  punctuality  and  antici- 
pation in  all  matters  relating  to  meals.  Who  ever  thinks  of 
Sancho,  and  does  not  think  of  ten  minutes  before  luncheon  ? 
Don  Quixote,  on  the  other  hand,  counts  it  ungenteel  and  undig- 
nified to  be  hungry.  The  cheat  who  flatters  Gil  Bias  reckons 
himself  entitled  to  be  insultingly  triumphant,  merely  because  he 
has  got  a  dinner  out  of  him. 

Of  all  these  ingenious  children  of  necessity,  whose  roguery  has 
been  sharpened  by  perpetual  want,  no  wit  was  surely  ever  kept 
at  so  subtle  and  fierce  an  edge  as  that  of  the  never-to- be-decently- 
treated  Lazarillo  de  Tormes.  If  we  ourselves  had  not  been  at  a 
sort  of  monastic  school,  and  known  the  beatitude  of  dry  bread 
and  a  draught  of  spring-water,  his  histoi-y  would  seem  to  inform 
us,  for  the  first  time,  what  hunger  was.  His  cunning  so  truly 
keeps  pace  with  it,  that  he  se^ms  recompensed  for  the  wants  of 
his  stomach  by  the  abundant  energies  of  his  head.  One-half  of 
his  imagination  is  made  up  of  dry  bread  and  fcraps,  and  the  other 
of  meditating  how  to  get  at  them.  Every  tho'ight  of  his  mind  and 
every  feeling  of  his  affection  coalesces  a»id  tends  to  one  point  with 
a  ventripetal  force.     It  was  said  of  a  contriving  lady,  that  she 

Hookham  Frere,  of  a  passage  out  of  the  Poemn  del  Cid,  is  the  most  naive 
and  terse  bit  of  translation  we  ever  met  Vf'u  i.  It  rides  along,  like  the  Cid 
himself  01.  horseback,  •''ith  an  infinite  mix  ip  ul  ardor  and  self-possession  : 
bending,  when  it  cnooses,  with  grace,  o  -o'^mg  down  everything  with 
mastery. 


CHAP   XX.]       THIEVES,  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN.  97 

took  her  very  tea  by  stratagem.  Lazarillo  is  not  so  lucky.  It  is 
enough  for  him,  if  by  a  train  of  the  most  ingenious  contrivances, 
he  can  lay  successful  siege  to  a  crust.  To  rout  some  broken 
victuals ;  to  circumvent  an  onion  or  so,  extraordinary,  is  the 
utmost  aim  of  his  ambition.  A.n  ox-foot  is  his  beau-ideal.  He 
has  as  intense  and  circuitous  a  sense  of  a  piece  of  cheese,  as 
a  mouse  at  a  trap.  He  swallows  surreptitious  crumbs  with  as 
much  zest  as  a  young  servant-girl  does  a  plate  of  preserves. 
But  to  his  story.  He  first  serves  a  blind  beggar,  with  whom  he 
lives  miserably,  except  when  he  commits  thefts,  which  subject 
him  to  miserable  beatings.  He  next  lives  with  a  priest,  and 
firds  his  condition  worse.  His  third  era  of  esuriency  takes 
place  in  the  house  of  a  Spanish  gentleman  ;  and  here  he  is 
worse  off  than  ever.  The  reader  wonders,  as  he  himself  did, 
how  he  can  possibly  ascend  to  this  climax  of  starvation.  To 
overreach  a  blind  beggar  might  be  thought  easy.  The  reader 
will  judge  by  a  specimen  or  two.  The  old  fellow  used  to  keep 
his  mug  of  liquor  between  his  legs,  that  Lazarillo  might  not 
touch  it  without  his  knowledge.  He  did,  however  ;  and  the  beg- 
gar discovering  it,  took  to  holding  the  mug  in  future  by  the 
handle.  Lazarillo  then  contrives  to  suck  some  of  the  liquor  off 
with  a  reed,  till  the  beggar  defeats  tliis  contrivance  by  keeping 
one  hand  upon  the  vessel's  mouth.  His  antagonist,  upon  this, 
makes  a  hole  near  the  bottom  of  the  mug,  filling  it  up  with  wax, 
and  so  tapping  the  can  with  as  much  gentleness  as  possible, 
whenever  his  thirst  makes  him  bold.  This  stratagem  threw  the 
blind  man  into  despair.  He  "  used  to  swear  and  domineer," 
and  wish  both  the  pot  and  its  contents  at  the  devil.  The  follow- 
ing account  of  the  result  is  a  specimen  of  the  English  transla- 
tion of  the  work,  which  is  done  with  great  tact  and  spirit,  we 
know  not  by  whom,  but  it  is  worthy  of  De  Foe.  Lazarillo  is 
supposed  to  tell  his  adventures  himself.  "  '  You  won't  accuse 
me  any  more,  I  hope,'  cried  I, '  of  drinking  your  wine,*  after  all 
the  fine  precautions  you  have  taken  to  prevent  it?'  To  that  he 
said  not  a  word  ;  but  feeling  all  about  the  pot,  he  at  last  un- 
luckily discovered  the  hole,  which  dissembling  at  that  time,  he 

*  The  reader  is  to  understand  a  common  southern  wine,  very  cheap 


98  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  sx 

let  me  alone  till  next  day  at  dinner.  Not  dreaming,  my  reoder 
must  know,  of  til  e  old  man's  malicious  stratagem,  but  getting  in 
between  his  legs,  according  to  my  wonted  custom,  and  receiving 
into  my  mouth  the  distilling  dew,  and  pleasing  myself  with  the 
success  of  my  own  ingenuity,  my  eyes  upward,  but  half  shut, 
the  furious  tyrant,  taking  up  the  sweet  hut  hard  pot,  with  Doth 
his  hands,  flung  it  down  again  with  all  his  force  upon  my  face ; 
with  the  violence  of  which  blow,  imagining  the  house  had  fallen 
upon  my  head,  I  lay  sprawling  without  any  sentiment  or  judg- 
ment ;  my  forehead,  nose,  and  mouth,  gushing  out  of  blood,  and 
the  latter  full  of  broken  teeth,  and  broken  pieces  of  the  can. 
From  that  time  forward,  I  ever  abominated  the  monstrous  old 
churl,  and  in  spite  of  all  his  flattering  stories,  could  easily  ob- 
serve how  my  punishment  tickled  the  old  rogue's  fancy.  He 
washed  my  sores  vs^ith  vfine  ;  and  with  a  smile,  '  What  sayest 
thou,'  quoth  he,  '  Lazarillo  ?  the  thing  that  hurt  thee,  now 
restores  thee  to  health.  Courage,  my  boy.'  But  all  his  raillery 
could  not  make  me  change  my  mind."   . 

At  another  time,  a  countryman  giving  them  a  cluster  of 
grapes,  the  old  man,  says  Lazarillo,  "  would  needs  take  that 
opportunity  to  show  me  a  little  kindness,  after  he  had  been 
chiding  and  beating  me  the  whole  day  before.  So  setting  our- 
selves down  by  a  hedge,  '  Come  hither,  Lazarillo,'  quoth  he, 
'  and  let  us  enjoy  ourselves  a  little,  and  eat  these  raisins  toge- 
ther ;  which  that  we  may  share  like  brothers,  do  you  take  but 
one  at  a  time,  and  be  sure  not  to  cheat  me,  and  I  promise  you, 
for  my  part,  I  shall  take  no  more.'  That  I  readily  agreed  to, 
and  so  we  began  our  banquet ;  but  at  the  very  second  time  he 
took  a  couple,  believing,  I  suppose,  that  I  would  do  the  same. 
And  finding  he  had  shown  me  the  way,  I  made  no  scruple  all 
the  while  to  take  two,  three,  or  four  at  a  time ;  sometimes  more 
and  sometimes  less,  as  conveniently  I  could.  When  we  had 
done,  the  old  man  shook  his  head,  and  holding  the  stalk  in  his 
hand,  '  Thou  hast  cheated  me,  Lazarillo,'  quoth  he,  '  for  I  could 
take  my  oath,  that  thou  hast  taken  three  at  a  time.'  '  Who,  I ! 
I  beg  your  pardon,'  q  loth  I,  '  my  conscience  is  as  dear  to  me  as 
another.'  '  Pass  that  jest  upon  another,'  answered  the  old  fox; 
'  you  saw  me  take  two  at  a  time  without  complaining  of  it,  and 


CHAP.  XX.]       THIEVES,  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN.  09 

therefore  you  took  three.'  At  that  I  could  nardly  forbear  laugti- 
ing ;  and  at  the  same  time  admired  the  justness  of  his  reason- 
ing." Lazarillo  at  length  quitted  the  service  of  the  old  hard- 
hearted miser,  and  revenged  himself  upon  him  at  the  same 
time,  in  a  very  summary  manner.  They  were  returning  home 
one  day  on  account  of  bad  weather,  when  they  had  to  cross  a 
kennel  which  the  rain  had  swelled  to  a  little  torrent.  The  beg- 
gar was  about  to  jump  over  it  as  well  as  he  could,  when  Laza- 
rillo  persuaded  him  to  go  a  little  lower  down  the  stream,  because 
there  was  a  better  crossing  ;  that  is,  there  was  a  stone  pillar  on 
the  other  side,  against  which  he  knew  the  blind  old  fellow  would 
nearly  dash  his  brains  out.  "  He  was  mightily  pleased  with  my 
advice.  '  Thou  art  in  the  right  on  it,  good  boy,'  quoth  he ;  '  and 
I  love  thee  with  all  my  heart,  Lazarillo.  Lead  me  to  the  place 
thou  speakest  of;  the  water  is  very  dangerous  in  winter,  and 
especially  to  have  one's  feet  wet.'  And  again — '  Be  sure  to  set 
me  in  the  right  place,  Lazarillo,'  quoth  he  ;  '  and  then  do  thou 
go  over  first.'  I  obeyed  his  orders,  and  set  him  exactly  before 
the  pillar,  and  so  leaping  over,  posted  myself  behind  it,  looking 
upon  him  as  a  man  would  do  upon  a  mad  bull.  '  Now  your 
jump,'  quoth  I  ;  '  and  you  may  get  over  to  rights,  without  ever 
touching  the  water.'  I  had  scarce  done  speaking,  when  the  old 
man,  like  a  ram  that's  fighting,  ran  three  steps  backwards,  to 
take  his  start  with  the  greater  vigor,  and  so  his  head  came  with 
a  vengeance  against  the  stone  pillar,  which  made  him  fall  back 
into  the  kennel  half  dead."  Lazarillo  stops  a  moment  to  triumph 
over  him  with  insulting  language ;  and  then,  says  he,  "  resign- 
ing my  blind,  bruised,  wet,  old,  cross,  cunning  master  to  the  care 
of  the  mob  that  was  gathered  about  him,  I  made  the  best  of  my 
heels,  without  ever  looking  about,  till  I  had  got  the  town  gate 
upon  my  back  ;  and  thence  marching  on  a  meny  pace,  I  arrived 
before  night  at  Torrigo." 

At  the  house  of  the  priest,  poor  Lazarillo  gets  worse  off  than 
before,  and  is  obliged  o  resort  to  the  most  extraordinary  shifts 
to  arrive  at  a  morsel  of  bread.  At  one  time,  he  gets  a  key  of  a 
tinker,  and  opening  the  old  trunk  in  which  the  miser  kept  his 
bread  (a  sight,  he  says,  like  the  opening  of  heaven),  he  takes 
small  pieces  out  of  three  or  four,  in  imitation  of  a  mouse  ;  which 


100  THE  INI  TCATOR.  [chap,  xx 

so  convinces  the  old  hunks  that  the  mice  and  rats  have  been  at 
them,  that  he  is  more  liberal  of  the  bread  than  usual.  He  lets 
him  have  in  particular  "  the  parings  above  the  parts  where  he 
thought  the  mice  had  been."  Another  of  his  contrivances  is  to 
palm  off  his  pickings  upon  a  serpent,  with  which  animal  a 
neighbor  told  the  priest  that  his  house  had  been  once  haunted. 
Lazarillo,  who  had  been  used  when  he  lived  with  the  beggar  to 
husband  pieces  of  money  in  his  mouth  (substituting  some  lesser 
coin  in  the  blind  man's  hand,  when  people  gave  him  anything), 
now  employs  the  same  hiding-place  for  his  key ;  but  whistling 
through  it  unfortunately  one  night,  as  he  lay  breathing  hard  in 
his  sleep,  the  priest  concludes  he  has  caught  the  serpent,  and 
going  to  Lazarillo's  bed  with  a  broomstick,  gives  him  at  a  ven- 
ture such  a  tremendous  blow  on  the  head,  as  half  nmrders  him. 
The  key  is  then  discovered,  and  the  poor  fellow  turned  out  of 
doors. 

He  is  now  hired  by  a  lofty-looking  hidalgo  ;  and  follows  him 
home,  eating  a  thousand  good  things  by  anticipation.  They 
pass  through  the  markets,  however,  to  no  purpose.  The  squire 
first  goes  to  church  too,  and  spends  an  unconscionable  time  at 
mass.  At  length  they  arrive  at  a  dreary,  ominous-looking 
house,  and  ascend  into  a  decent  apartment,  where  the  squire, 
after  shaking  his  cloak,  and  blowing  off  the  dust  from  a  stone 
seat,  lays  it  neatly  down,  and  so  makes  a  cushion  of  it  to  sit 
upon.  There  is  no  other  furniture  in  the  room,  nor  even  in  th& 
neighboring  rooms,  except  a  bed  "  composed  of  the  anatomy  of 
an  old  hamper."  The  truth  is,  the  squire  is  as  poor  as  Laza- 
rillo, only  too  proud  to  own  it;  and  so  he  starves  both  himself 
and  his  servant  at  home,  and  then  issues  gallantly  forth  of  a 
morning,  with  his  Toledo  by  his  side,  and  a  countenance  of 
stately  satisfaction ;  returning  home  every  day  about  noon  with 
"  a  starched  body,  reaching  out  his  neck  like  a  greyhound." 
Lazarillo  had  not  been  a  day  in  the  house,  before  he  found  out 
how  matters  went.  He  was  beginning,  in  his  despair  of  a  din- 
ner, to  eat  some  scraps  of  bread  which  had  been  givei  him  in 
the  morning,  when  the  squire  observing  him,  asked  wha  he  was 
about.  "  Come  hitjier,  boy,"  said  he,  "  what's  that  thou  art 
eating  ?" — "  I  went,"  says  Lazarillo,   "  and  showed  him  three 


CHAP.  xx.T       THIEVES,  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN.  101 

pieces  of  bread,  of  whicn,  taking  away  the  best,  *  Upon  my 
faith,'  quoth  he,  'this  bread  seems  to  be  very  good.' — '  'Tis  too 
stale  and  hard,  sir,' said  I,  'to  be  good.' — 'I  swear 'tis  very 
good,'  said  the  squire  ;  '  who  gave  it  thee  ?  Were  their  hands 
clean  that  gave  it  thee  V — '  I  took  it  without  asking  any  ques- 
tions, sir,'  answered  I,  'and  you  see  I  eat  it  as  freely.' — 'Pray 
God  it  may  be  so,'  answered  the  miserable  squire  ;  and  so  put- 
ting the  bread  to  his  mouth,  he  eat  it  with  no  less  appetite  than 
I  did  mine ;  adding  to  every  mouthful,  '  Gadzooks,  this  bread  is 
excellent." 

Lazarillo,  in  short,  here  finds  the  bare  table  so  completely 
turned  upon  him,  that  he  is  forced  to  become  provider  for  his 
master  as  well  as  himself;  which  he  does  by  fairly  going  out 
every  day  and  begging  :  the  poor  squire  winking  at  the  indig- 
nity, though  not  without  a  hint  at  keeping  the  connection  secret. 
The  following  extract  shall  be  our  climax,  which  it  may  well 
be,  the  hunger  having  thus  ascended  into  the  ribs  of  Spanish 
aristocracy.  Lazarillo,  one  lucky  day,  has  an  ox-foot  and  some 
tripe  given  him  by  a  butcher-woman.  On  coming  home,  with 
his  treasure,  he  finds  the  hidalgo  impatiently  walking  up  and 
down,  and  fears  he  shall  have  a  scolding  for  staying  so  long ; 
but  the  squire  merely  asks  where  he  has  beeuj  and  receives  the 
account  with  an  irrepressible  air  of  delight.  "  I  sate  down," 
says  Lazarillo,  "  upon  the  end  of  the  stone  seat,  and  began  to 
eat  that  he  might  fancy  I  was  feasting  ;  and  observed,  without 
seeming  to  take  notice,  that  his  eye  was  fixed  upon  my  skirt, 
which  was  all  the  plate  and  table  that  I  had. 

"  May  God  pity  me  as  I  had  compassion  on  that  poor  squire  ; 
daily  experience  made  me  sensible  of  his  trouble.  I  did  not 
know  whether  I  should  invite  him,  for  since  he  had  told  me  he 
had  dined,  I  thought  he  would  make  a  point  of  honor  to  refuse 
to  eat ;  but  in  short,  being  very  desirous  to  supply  his  necessity, 
as  I  had  done  the  day  before,  and  which  I  was  then  much  bet- 
ter in  a  condition  to  do,  having  already  sufficiently  stuffed  my 
own  guts,  it  was  not  long  before  an  opportunity  fairly  offered 
itself;  for  he  taking  occasion  to  come  near  me  in  his  walks, 
'  Lazarillo,'  quoth  h  i  (as  soon  as  he  observed  me  begin  to  eat), 
'  I  never  saw  anybody  eat  so  handsomely  as  thee ;  a  body  can 


102  THE  INDICATOR  [chap,  xx 

scarce  see  thee  fall  to  work  without  desiring  to  bear  thee  compa- 
ny ;  let  their  stomachs  be  never  so  full,  or  their  mouth  be  never 
so  much  out  of  taste.'  Faith,  thought  I  to  myself,  with  such  an 
empty  belly  as  yours,  my  own  mouth  would  water  at  a  great 
deal  less. 

"  But  finding  he  was  come  where  I  wished  him :  '  Sir,'  said 
I,  '  good  stuff  makes  a  good  workman.  This  is  admirable 
bread,  and  here's  an  ox-foot  so  nicely  dressed  and  so  well-sea- 
soned, that  anybody  would  delight  to  taste  of  it.' 

"'How!"  cried  the  squire,  interrupting  me,  'an  ox-foot?' — 
'Yes,  sir,'  said  I,  'an  ox-foot.' — 'Ah!  theti,'  quoth  he,  'thou 
hast  in  my  opinion  the  delicatest  bit  in  Spain  ;  there  being  neither 
partridge,  pheasant,  nor  any  other  thing  that  I  like  nearly  so 
well  as  that.' 

"  '  Will  you  please  to  try,  sir  V  said  I  (putting  the  ox-foot  in 
his  hand,  with  two  good  morsels  of  bread):  'when  you  have 
tasted  it  you  will  be  convinced  that  it  is  a  treat  for  a  king,  'tis 
so  well  dressed  and  seasoned.' 

"  Upon  that,  sitting  down  by  my  side,  he  began  to  eat,  or 
rather  to  devour,  what  I  had  given  him,  so  that  the  bones  could 
hardly  escape.  'Oh!  the  excellent  bit,'  did  he  cry,  'that  this 
would  be  with  a  little  garlic  !'  Ha!  thought  I  to  myself,  how 
hastily  thou  eatest  it  without  sauce.  '  Gad,'  said  the  squire,  'I 
have  eaten  this  as  heartily  as  if  I  had  not  tasted  a  bit  of  victuals 
to-day:'  which  I  did  very  readily  believe. 

"  He  then  called  for  the  pitcher  with  the  water,  which  was  as 
full  as  I  had  brought  it  home ;  so  you  may  guess  whether  he 
had  had  any.  When  his  squireshiphad  drank,  he  civilly  invit- 
ed me  to  do  the  like  ;  and  thus  ended  our  feast." 

We  hope  the  reader  is  as  much  amused  with  this  prolonga- 
tion of  the  subject  as  ourselves,  for  we  are  led  on  insensibly  by 
these  amusing  thieves,  and  find  we  have  more  to  write  upon 
them,  before  we  have  done.  We  must  give  another  specimen 
or  two  of  the  sharping  Spaniard,  out  of  Quevedo.  The  Adven- 
tures, by  the  way,  of  Lnzarillo  de  Tonnes,  were  written  in  the 
sixteenth  century  by  a  Spanish  gentleman,  apparently  of  illus- 
trious family,  Don  Diego  de  Mendoza,  who  was  sometime  am- 
bassador  at  Venice.     This  renders  the  story  of  the  hidalgo  still 


CHAP  XX.]       THIEVES,  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN.  iu3 

more  curious.  Not  that  the  author  perha:  sever  felt  the  proud 
but  condescending  pangs  which  he  describes ;  this  is  not  neces- 
sary for  a  man  of  imagination.  He  merely  meant  to  give  a 
hint  to  the  poorer  gentry  not  to  overdo  the  matter  on  the  side  of 
loftiness,  for  their  own  sakes ;  and  hunger,  whether  among  the 
proud  or  the  humble,  was  too  national  a  thing  not  to  be  entertjd 
into  by  his  statistic  apprehension. 

The  most  popular  work  connected  with  sharping  adventures 
is  Gil  Bias,  which,  though  known  to  us  as  a  French  production, 
seems  unquestionably  to  have  originated  in  the  country  where 
the  scene  is  laid.  It  is  a  work  exquisitely  easy  and  true ;  but 
somehow  we  have  no  fancy  for  the  knaves  in  it.  They  are  of 
too  smooth,  sneaking,  and  safe  a  cast.  They  neither  bespeak 
one's  sympathy  by  necessity,  nor  one's  admiration  by  daring. 
We  except,  of  course,  the  robbers  before-mentioned,  who  are  a 
picturesque  patch  in  the  world,  like  a  piece  of  rough  poetry. 

Of  the  illustrious  Guzman  d' A  If ar  ache,  the  most  popular  book 
of  the  kind,  we  believe,  in  Spain,  and  admired,  we  know,  in 
this  countiy  by  some  excellent  judges,  we  cannot  with  propriety 
speak,  for  we  have  only  read  a  few  pages  at  the  beginning  ; 
though  we  read  them  twice  over,  at  two  different  times,  and 
each  time  with  the  same  intention  of  going  on.  In  truth,  as 
Guzman  is  called  by  way  of  eminence  the  Spanish  Rogue,  we 
must  say  for  him,  as  far  as  our  slight  acquaintance  warrants  it, 
that  he  is  also  "  as  tedious  as  a  king."  They  say,  however,  he 
has  excellent  stuff  in  him. 

We  can  speak  as  little  of  Marcos  de  Obregon,  of  which  a 
translation  appeared  a  little  while  ago.  We  have  read  it,  and, 
if  we  remember  rightly,  were  pleased  ;  but  want  of  memory  on 
these  occasions  is  not  a  good  symptom.  Quevedo,  no  ordinary 
person,  is  very  amusing.  His  Visions  of  Hell,  in  particular, 
though  of  a  very  different  kind  from  Dante's,  are  more  edifying 
But  our  business  at  present  is  with  his  "  History  of  Paul  the 
Spanish  Sharper,  the  Pattern  of  Rogues  and  Mirror  of  Vaga- 
bonds.'' We  do  not  know  that  he  deserves  these  appellations  so 
much  as  some  others  ;  but  they  are  to  be  looked  upon  as  titular 
ornaments,  common  to  the  Spanish  Kleptocracy.  He  is  extreme- 
ly pleasant,  especially  in  his  younger  days.      His  mother,  who 

10  " 


104  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  xx. 

is  no  bettei"  than  the  progenitor  of  such  a  personage  ought  to  be, 
happens  to  have  the  misfortune  one  day  of  being  carted.  Paul, 
who  was  then  a  school-boy,  was  elected  king  on  some  boyish 
holiday  ;  and  riding  out  upon  a  half-starved  horse,  it  picked  up  a 
small  cabbage  as  they  went  through  the  market.  The  market- 
women  began  pelting  the  king  with  rotten  oranges  and  turnip 
tops  ;  upon  which,  having  feathers  in  his  cap,  and  getting  a  no- 
tion in  his  head  that  they  mistook  him  for  his  mother,  who, 
agreeably  to  a  Spanish  custom,  was  tricked  out  in  the  same 
manner  when  she  was  carted,  he  halloo'd  out,  "  Good  women, 
though  I  wear  feathers  in  my  cap,  I  am  none  of  Alonza  Saturuo 
de  Rebillo.     She  is  my  mother." 

Paul  used  to  be  set  upon  unlucky  tricks  by  the  son  of  a  man 
of  rank,  who  preferred  enjoying  a  joke  to  getting  punished  for 
it.  Among  others,  one  Christmas,  a  counsellor  happening  to  go 
by  of  the  name  of  Pontic  de  Auguirre,  the  little  Don  told  his 
companion  to  call  Pontius  Pilate,  and  then  to  run  away.  He 
did  so,  and  the  angry  counsellor  followed  after  him  with  a  knife 
in  his  hand,  so  that  he  was  forced  to  take  refuge  in  the  house  of 
the  schoolmaster.  The  lawyer  laid  his  indictment,  and  Paul  got 
a  hearty  flogging,  during  which  he  was  enjoined  never  to  call 
Pontius  Pilate  again  ;  to  which  he  heartily  agreed.  The  con- 
sequence was,  that  next  day,  when  the  boys  were  at  prayers, 
Paul,  coming  to  the  Belief,  and  thinking  that  he  was  never 
again  to  name  Pontius  Pilate,  gravely  said,  "  Suffered  under 
Pontic  de  Auguirre  ;"  which  evidence  of  his  horror  of  the 
scourge  so  interested  the  pedagogue,  that,  by  a  Catholic  mode  of 
dispensation,  he  absolved  him  from  the  next  two  whippings  he 
should  incur. 

But  we  forget  that  our  little  picaro  was  a  thief.  One  speci- 
men of  his  talents  this  way,  and  we  have  done  with  the  Span- 
iards. He  went  with  young  Don  Diego  to  the  university  ;  and 
here  getting  applause  for  some  tricks  he  played  upon  people, 
and  dandling,  as  it  were,  his  growing  propensity  to  theft,  he  in- 
vited his  companions  one  evening  to  see  him  steal  a  box  of  com- 
fits from  a  confectioner's.  He  accordingly  draws  his  rapier, 
which  was  stiff  and  well-pointed  ;  runs  violently  into  the  shop ; 
and  exclain:ing,  "  You're   a  dead  man  !"  makes  a  fierce  lunge 


CHAP.  XX.]       THIEVES,  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN.  105 

at  the  contectioner  between  the  body  and  arm.  Down  drops  the 
man,  half  dead  with  fear  ;  the  others  rush  out.  But  what  of 
the  box  of  comfits  ?  "  Where  is  the  box  of  comfits,  Paul  ?" 
said  the  rogues :  "  we  do  not  see  what  you  have  done  after  all, 
except  frighten  the  fellow '?" — "  Look  here,  my  boys,''  answer- 
ed Paul.  They  looked,  and  at  the  end  of  his  rapier  beheld, 
with  shouts  of  laughter,  the  vanquished  box.  He  had  marked 
it  out  on  the  shelf;  and  under  pretence  of  lunging  at  the  con- 
fectioner, pinked  it  away  like  a  muffin. 

Upon  turning  to  Quevedo,  we  find  that  the  story  has  grown  a 
little  upon  our  memory,  as  to  detail ;  but  this  is  the  spirit  of  it. 
The  prize  here,  it  is  to  be  observed,  is  something  eatable,  and 
the  same  yearning  is  a  predominant  property  of  Quevedo's 
sharpers,  as  well  as  the  others. 

Adieu,  ye  pleasant  rogues  of  Spain  !  ye  surmounters  of  bad 
government,  hunger,  and  misery,  by  the  mere  force  of  a  light 
climate  and  fingers!  The  dinner  calls  ; — and  to  talk  about  you 
before  it,  is  as  good  as  taking  a  I'ide  on  horseback. 

We  must  return  a  moment  to  the  Italian  thieves,  to  relate  a 
couple  of  stories  related  of  Ariosto  and  Tasso.  The  former  was 
for  a  short  period  governor  of  Grafagnana,  a  disturbed  district 
in  the  Apennines,  which  his  prudent  and  gentle  policy  brought 
back  from  its  disaffection.  Among  its  other  troubles  were  nu- 
merous bands  of  robbers,  two  of  the  names  of  whose  leaders, 
Domenico  Maraco,  and  Filippo  Pacchione,  have  come  down  to 
posterity.  Ariosto,  during  the  first  days  of  his  government,  was 
riding  out  with  a  small  retinue,  when  he  had  to  pass  through  a 
number  of  suspicious-looking  armed  men.  The  two  parties  had 
scarcely  cleared  each  other,  when  the  chief  of  the  strangers 
asked  a  servant,  who  happened  to  be  at  some  distance  behind  the 
others,  who  that  person  was.  "  It  is  the  captain  of  the  citadel 
here,"  said  the  man,  "  Lodovico  Ariosto."  The  stranger  no 
sooner  heard  the  name,  than  he  went  running  back  to  overtake 
the  governor,  who,  stopping  his  horse,  waited  with  some  anxiety 
for  the  event.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  Sir,"  said  he,  "  but  I  was 
not  aware  that  so  great  a  person  as  the  Signor Lodovico  Aiiosto 
was  passing   near  me.     My  lame   is    Filippo   Pacchione  ;  and 


i06  THE  INDICATOR.  chap,  xx 

when  I  knew  who  it  was,  1  could  not  go  on  without  returning  to 
pay  the  respect  due  to  so  illustrious  a  name." 

A  doubt  is  thrown  on  this  story,  or  rather  o  i  the  particular 
person  who  gave  occasion  to  it,  by  the  similari  y  of  an  adven- 
ture related  of  Tasso.  Both  of  them  however  are  very  probable, 
let  the  similarity  be  what  it  may  ;  for  both  the  poets  had  occa- 
sion to  go  through  disturbed  districts  ;  robbers  abounded  in  both 
their  times  ;  and  the  leaders  being  most  probably  men  rather  of 
desperate  fortunes  than  want  of  knowledge,  were  likely  enough 
to  seize  such  opportunities  of  vindicating  their  better  habits,  and 
showing  a  romantic  politeness.  The  enthusiasm  too  is  quite  in 
keeping  with  the  national  character ;  and  it  is  to  be  observed 
that  the  particulars  of  Tasso's  adventure  are  different,  though 
the  spirit  of  it  is  the  same.  He  was  journeying,  it  is  said, 
in  company  with  others,  for  better  security  against  the  banditti 
who  infested  the  borders  of  the  papal  territory,  when  they 
were  told  that  Sciarra,  a  famous  robber,  was  at  hand  in 
considerable  force.  Tasso  was  for  pushing  on,  and  de- 
fending themselves  if  attacked ;  but  his  opinion  was  overrul- 
ed ;  and  the  company  threw  themselves,  for  safety,  into  the  city 
of  Mola.  Here  Sciarra  kept  them  in  a  manner  blocked  up  ; 
but  hearing  that  Tasso  was  among  the  travellers,  he  sent  him 
word  that  he  should  not  only  be  allowed  to  pass,  but  should  have 
safe-conduct  whithersoever  he  pleased.  The  lofty  poet,  making 
it  a  matter  of  delicacy,  perhaps,  to  waive  an  advantage  of  which 
his  company  could  not  partake,  declined  the  offer ;  upon  which 
Sciarra  sent  another  message,  saying,  that  upon  the  sole  ac- 
count of  Tasso,  the  ways  should  be  left  open.     And  they  were  so. 

We  can  call  to  mind  no  particular  German  thieves,  except 
those  who  figure  in  romances,  and  in  the  Robbers  of  Schiller. 
To  say  the  truth,  we  are  writing  just  now  with  but  few  books  to 
refer  to ;  and  the  better  informed  reader  must  pardon  any  defi- 
ciency he  meets  with  in  these  egregious  and  furtive  memoran- 
dums. Of  the  Robbers  of  Schiller  an  extraordinary  effect  is 
related.  It  is  said  to  have  driven  a  number  of  wild-headed 
young  Germans  upon  playing  at  banditti,  not  in  the  bounds  of  a 
school  or  university,  but  seriously  in  a  forest.  The  matter-of- 
fact  spirit  in  which  a  German  sets  about  being  enthusiastic,  is  a 


CHAP.  XX.]       THIEVES,  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN.  17 

metaphysical  curiosity  which  modern  events  render  doubly  inte- 
resting. It  is  extremely  worthy  of  the  attention  of  those  rart^ 
personages,  entitled  reflecting  politicians.  But  we  must  take 
care  of  that  kind  of  digression.  It  is  very  inhuman  of  these 
politics,  that  the  habit  of  attending  to  them,  though  with  the 
greatest  good-will  and  sincerity,  will  always  be  driving  a  man 
upon  thinking  how  his  fellow-creatures  are  going  on. 

There  is  a  pleasant,  well-known  story  of  a  Prussian  thief  and 
Frederick  the  Second. 

We  forget  what  was  the  precise  valuable  found  upon  the 
Prussian  soldier,  and  missed  from  an  image  of  the  Virgin  Mary  ; 
but  we  believe  it  was  a  ring.  He  was  tried  for  sacrilege,  and 
the  case  seemed  clear  against  him,  when  he  puzzled  his  Catho- 
lic judges  by  informing  them,  that  the  fact  was,  the  Virgin 
Marv  had  siven  him  that  ring.  Here  was  a  terrible  dilemma. 
To  dispute  the  possibility  or  even  probability  of  a  gift  from  the 
Virgin  Mary,  was  to  deny  their  religion :  while,  on  the  other 
hand,  to  let  the  fellow  escape  on  the  pretence,  was  to  canonize 
impudence  itself.  The  worthy  judges,  in  their  perplexity,  ap- 
plied to  the  king,  who,  under  the  guise  of  behaving  delicately  to 
their  faith,  was  not  sorry  to  have  such  an  opportunity  of  joking 
it.  His  rfiajesty  therefore  pronounced,  with  becoming  gravity, 
that  the  allegation  of  the  soldier  could  not  but  have  its  due 
weight  with  all  Catholic  believers ;  but  that  in  future,  it  was 
forbidden  any  Prussian  subject,  military  or  civil,  to  accept  a 
present  from  the  Virgin  Mary. 

The  district,  formerly  rendered  famous  by  the  exploits  of 
Scanderbeg,  Prince  of  Epirus,  and  since  become  infamous  by 
the  tyranny  of  Ali  Bey,  has  been  very  fertile  in  robbers.  And  no 
wonder :  for  a  semi-barbarous  people  so  governed  became  thieves 
by  necessity.  The  name  indeed,  as  well  as  profession,  is  in 
such  good  receipt  with  an  Albanian,  that  according  to  late  tra- 
vellers, it  is  a  common  thing  for  him  to  begin  his  history  by  say- 
ing, "  When  I. was  a  robber "     We  remember  reading  of 

some  Albanian  or  Sclavonian  leader  of  banditti,  who  made  his 
enemies  suppose  he  had  a  numerous  force  with  him,  by  distri- 
buting military  caps  upon  the  hedges. 

There  are  some  other   nations  who  are  all  tl  'eves,  more  f 

10* 


108  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xx 

less ;  or  comprise  such  numbers  of  them  as  very  much  militate 
against  the  national  character.  Such  are  the  piratical  Malays  ,• 
the  still  more  infamous  Algerines ;  and  the  mongrel  tribes  be 
tween  Arabia  and  Abyssinia.  As  to  the  Arabs,  they  have  a 
prescriptive  right,  from  tradition  as  well  as  local  circumstances, 
to  plunder  everybody.  The  sanguinary  ruffians  of  Ashantee 
and  other  black  empires  on  the  coast  of  Guinea  are  more  like  a 
government  of  murderers  and  ogres,  than  thieves.  They  are 
the  next  ruffians  perhaps  in  existence  to  slave-dealers.  The 
gentlest  nation  of  pilferers  are  the  Otaheitans :  and  something 
is  to  be  said  for  their  irresistible  love  of  hatchets  and  old  nails. 
Let  the  European  trader  that  is  without  sin,  cast  the  first  para- 
graph at  them.  Let  him  think  what  he  should  feel  inclined  to 
do,  were  a  ship  of  some  unknown  nation  to  come  upon  his  coast, 
with  gold  and  jewels  lying  scattered  about  the  deck.  For  no 
less  precious  is  iron  to  the  South  Sea  Islander.  A  Paradisiaca" 
state  of  existence  would  be,  to  him,  not  the  Golden,  but  thelror 
Age.  An  Otaheitan  Jupiter  would  visit  his  Danae  in  a  shower 
of  tenpenny  nails. 

We  are  now  come  to  a  very  multitudinous  set  of  candidates 
for  the  halter,  the  thievesof  our  own  beloved  country.  For  what 
we  know  of  the  French  thieves  is  connected  with  them,  except- 
ing Cartouche  ;  and  we  remember  nothing  of  him,  but  that  he 
was  a  great  ruffian,  and  died  upon  that  worse  ruffian,  the  rack. 

There  is,  to  be  sure,  an  eminent  instance  of  a  single  theft  in 
the  Confessions  of  Rousseau  ;  and  it  is  the  second  greatest  blot 
in  his  book  ;  for  he  suffered  a  girl  to  be  charged  with  and  pun- 
ished for  the  theft,  and  maintained  the  lie  to  her  face,  though  she 
was  his  friend,  and  appealed  to  him  with  tears.  But  it  may  be 
said  for  him,  at  any  rate,  that  the  world  would  not  have  known 
the  story  but  for  himself:  and  if  such  a  disclosure  be  regarded 
by  some  as  an  additional  offence  (which  it  may  be  thought  to  be 
by  some  very  delicate  as  well  as  dishonest  people),  we  must 
recollect,  that  it  was  the  object  of  his  book  to  give  a  plain  unso- 
phisticated account  of  a  human  being's  experiences ,  and  that 
many  persons  of  excellent  repute  would  have  been  found  to 
have  committed  actions  as  bad,  had  they  given  accounts  of  them- 
selves as  candid.     Dr.  Jcinson  was  of  opinion  that  all  children 


CHAP.  XX.]       THIEVES,  A  >JCIENT  AND  MODERN.  109 

were  thieves  and  liars :  and  somebody,  we  believe  a  Scotch- 
man, answered  a  fond  speech  about  human  nature,  by  exclaim- 
ing that  "  human  nature  was  a  rogue  and  a  vagabond,  or  so 
many  laws  would  not  have  been  necessary  to  restrain  it."  We 
venture  to  differ,  on  this  occasion,  with  both  Englishman  and 
Scotchman.  Laws  in  particular,  taking  the  bad  with  the  good, 
are  quite  as  likely  to  have  made  rogues,  as  restrained  them. 
But  we  see,  at  any  rate,  what  has  been  suspected  of  more  ortho- 
dox persons  than  Rousseau ;  to  say  nothing  of  less  charitable 
advantages  which  might  be  taken  of  such  opinions.  Rousseau 
committed  a  petty  theft ;  and  miserably  did  his  false  shame,  the 
parent  of  so  many  crimes,  make  him  act.  But  he  won  back  to 
their  infants'  lips  the  bosoms  of  thousands  of  mothers.  He  re- 
stored to  their  bereaved  and  helpless  owners  thousands  of  those 
fountains  of  health  and  joy :  and  before  he  is  abused,  even  for 
worse  things  than  the  theft,  let  those  whose  virtue  consists  in 
custom,  think  of  this. 

As  we  have  mixed  fictitious  with  real  thieves  in  this  article, 
in  a  manner,  we  fear,  somewhat  uncritical  (and  yet  the  fictions 
are  most  likely  founded  on  fact ;  and  the  life  of  a  real  thief  is 
a  kind  of  dream  and  romance),  we  will  despatch  our  fictitious 
English  thieves  before  we  come  to  the  othei's.  And  we  must 
make  shorter  work  of  them  than  we  intended,  or  we  shall  never 
come  to  our  friend  Du  Vail.  The  length  to  which  this  article 
has  stretched  out,  will  be  a  warning  to  us  how  we  render  our 
paper  liable  to  be  run  away  with  in  future. 

There  is  a  very  fine  story  of  Three  Thieves  in  Chaucer, 
which  we  must  tell  at  large  another  time.  The  most  prominent 
of  the  fabulous  thieves  in  England  is  that  bellipotent  and  immea- 
surable wag,  Falstaff.  If  for  a  momentary  freak,  he  thought  it 
villanous  to  steal,  at  the  next  moment  he  thought  it  villanous 
not  to  steal. 

"  Hal,  I  pr'ythee,  trouble  me  no  more  with  vanity.  I  would 
to  God  though  and  I  knew  where  a  commodity  of  good  names 
were  to  be  bought.  An  old  lord  of  the  council  rated  me  the  other 
day  in  the  street,  about  you,  Sir  ;  but  1  marked  him  not.  And 
yet  he  talked  very  wisely ;  but  I  regarded  hx.n  not.  And  yet 
ho  talked  wisely  ;   and  in  the  streets,  too. 


110  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  xx. 

*•  P.  Henry.  Thou  didst  well ;  for  '  Wisdom  cries  out  in  the 
streets,  and  no  man  regards  it.' 

"  Falstaff.  O,  thou  hast  damnable  iteration  ;  and  art,  indeed, 
able  to  corrupt  a  saint.  Thou  hast  done  much  harm  upon  me, 
Hal ;  God  forgive  thee  for  it !  Before  I  knew  thee,  Hal,  I  knew 
nothing;  and  now  am  I,  if  a  man  should  speak  truly,  little  bet. 
ter  than  one  of  the  wicked.  I  must  give  over  this  life,  and  I 
will  give  it  over :  by  the  Lord,  an  I  do  not,  I  am  a  villain :  I'll 
be  damned  for  never  a  king's  son  in  Christendom. 

"P.  Henry.     Where  shall  we  take  a  purse  to-morrow.  Jack  ? 

"  Falstaff.  Where  thou  wilt,  lad  ;  I'll  make  one  :  an  I  do  not, 
call  me  villain,  and  baffle  me." 

We  must  take  care  how  we  speak  of  Macheath,  or  we  shall  be 
getting  political  again.  Fielding's  Jonathan  Wild  the  Great  is 
also,  in  this  sense,  "caviare  to  the  multitude."  But  we  would 
say  more  if  we  had  room.  Count  Fathom,  a  deliberate  scoun- 
drel, compounded  of  the  Jonathan  Wilds  and  the  more  equivo- 
cal Cagliostros,  and  other  adventurers,  is  a  thief  not  at  all  to  our 
taste.  We  are  continually  obliged  to  call  his  mother  to  our 
recollection,  in  order  to  bear  him.  The  only  instance  in  which 
the  character  of  an  absolute  profligate  pickpocket  was  ever 
made  comparatively  welcome  to  our  graver  feelings,  is  in  the 
extraordinary  story  of  "  Manon  VEscaut"  by  the  Abbe  Prevost. 
It  is  the  story  of  a  young  man,  so  passionately  in  love  with  a 
profligate  female,  that  he  follows  her  through  every  species  of 
vice  and  misery,  even  when  she  is  sent  as  a  convict  to  New 
Orleans.  His  love,  indeed,  is  returned.  He  is  obliged  to  sub- 
sist upon  her  vices,  and,  in  return,  is  induced  to  help  her  with 
his  own,  becoming  a  cheat  and  a  swindler  to  supply  her  outra- 
geous extravagances.  On  board  the  convict-ship  (if  we  recol- 
lect) he  waits  on  her  through  every  species  of  squalidness,  the 
convict-dress  and  her  shaved  head  only  redoubling  his  love  by 
the  help  of  pity.  This  seems  a  shocking  and  very  immoral 
book  ;  yet  multitudes  of  very  reputable  people  have  found  a 
charm  in  it.  The  fact  is,  not  only  that  Manon  is  beautiful, 
sprightly,  really  fond  of  her  lover,  and  after  all,  becomps 
reformed ;  but  that  it  s  delightful,  and  ought  to  be  so,  to  the 
human  heart,  to  see  a  vein  of  sentiment  and  real  goodness  look- 


CHAP.  XX.]       THIEVES,  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN.  Ill 

ing  out  through  all  this  callous  surface  of  guilt.  It  is  like 
meeting  with  a  tree  in  a  squalid  hole  of  a  city  ;  a  flower  or  a 
frank  face  in  a  reprobate  purlieu.  The  capabilities  of  human 
nature  are  not  compromised.  The  virtue  alone  seems  natural  ; 
the  guilt,  as  it  so  often  is,  seems  artificial,  and  the  result  of  some 
bad  education  or  other  circumstance.  Nor  is  anybody  injured. 
It  is  one  of  the  shallowest  of  all  shallow  notions  to  talk  of  the 
harm  of  such  works.  Do  we  think  nobody  is  to  be  harmed  but 
the  virtuous ;  or  that  there  are  not  privileged  harms  and  vices 
to  be  got  rid  of,  as  well  as  unprivileged  ?  No  good-hearted 
person  will  be  injured  by  reading  "  Manon  I'Escaut."  There 
is  the  belief  in  goodness  in  it ;  a  faith,  the  want  of  which  does 
so  much  harm,  both  to  the  vicious  and  the  over-righteous. 

The  prince  of  all  robbers,  English  or  .foreign,  is  undoubtedly 
Robin  Hood.  There  is  a  worthy  Scottish  namesake  of  his,  Rob 
Roy,  who  has  lately  had  justice  done  to  all  his  injuries  by  a 
countryman  ;  and  the  author,  it  seems,  has  now  come  down  from 
the  borders  to  see  the  Rob  of  the  elder  times  well  treated.  We 
were  obliged  to  tear  ourselves  away  from  his  first  volume,*  to 
go  to  this  ill- repaying  article.  But  Robin  Hood  will  still  remain 
the  chief  and  "  gentlest  of  thieves."  He  acted  upon  a  larger 
scale,  or  in  opposition  to  a  larger  injustice,  to  a  whole  political 
system.  He  "shook  the  superflux"  to  the  poor,  and  "showed 
the  heavens  more  just."  However,  what  we  have  to  say  of 
him,  we  must  keep  till  the  trees  are  in  leaf  again,  and  the  green- 
wood shade  delightful. 

We  dismiss,  in  one  rabble-like  heap,  the  real  Jonathan  Wilds, 
Avershaws,  and  other  heroes  oixhe  Newgate  Calendar,  who  have 
no  redemption  in  their  rascality  ;  and  after  them,  for  gentlemen- 
valets,  may  go  the  Barringtons,  Major  Semples,  and  other 
sneaking  rogues,  who  held  on  a  tremulous  career  of  iniquity, 
betwixt  pilfering  and  repenting.  Yet  Jack  Sheppard  must  not 
be  forgotten,  with  his  ingenious  and  daring  breaks-out  of  prison  ; 
nor  Turpin,  who  is  said  to  have  ridden  his  horse  with  such 
swiftness  from  York  to  London,  that  he  was  enabled  to  set  up  an 
aim.     We  have  omitted  to  notice  the  celebrated  Bucaniers  of 

*  Of Ivanhoe 


112  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  xx. 

America ;  but  these  are  fellows,  with  regard  to  whom  we  are 
willing  to  take  Dogberry's  advice,  and  "steal  out  of  their  com- 
pany."    Their  history  disappoints  us  with  its  dryness. 

All  hail !  thou  most  attractive  of  scape-graces !  thou  most 
accomplished  of  gentlemen  of  the  road  !  thou,  worthy  to  be  called 
one  of  "  the  minions  of  the  moon,"  Monsieur  Claude  Du  Vail, 
whom  we  have  come  such  a  long  and  dangerous  journey  to  see  ! 
Claude  du  Vail,  according  to  a  pleasant  account  of  him  in  the 
Harleian  Miscellany,  was  born  at  Domfront,  in  Normandy,  in 
the  year  1643,  of  Pierre  Du  Vail,  miller,  and  JMarguerite  de  la 
Roche,  the  fair  daughter  of  a  tailor.  Being  a  sprightly  boy,  he 
did  not  remain  in  the  country,  but  became  servant  to  a  person 
of  quality  at  Paris,  and  with  this  gentleman  he  came  over  to 
England  at  the  time  of  the  Restoration.  It  is  difficult  to  say, 
which  came  over  to  pick  the  most  pockets  and  hearts,  Charles 
the  Second  or  Claude  du  Vail.  Be  this  as  it  may,  his  "  courses" 
of  life  ("  for,"  says  the  contemporary  historian,  "  I  dare  not  call 
them  vices"),  soon  reduced  him  to  the  necessity  of  going  upon 
the  road  ;  and  here  "  he  quickly  became  so  famous,  that  in  a 
proclamation  for  the  taking  several  notorious  highwaymen,  he 
had  the  honor  to  be  named  first."  "  He  took,"  says  his  bio- 
grapher,  "  the  generous  way  of  padding  ;"  that  is  to  say,  he  be- 
haved with  exemplary  politeness  to  all  coaches,  especially  those 
in  which  there  were  ladies,  making  a  point  of  frightening  them 
as  amiably  as  possible,  and  insisting  upon  returning  any  favorite 
trinkets  or  keepsakes,  for  which  they  chose  to  appeal  to  him  with 
"  their  most  sweet  voices." 

It  was  in  this  character  that  he  performed  an  exploit,  which 
is  the  eternal  feather  in  the  cap  of  highway  gentility.  We  will 
relate  it  in  the  words  of  our  informer.  Riding  out  with  some  of 
his  confederates,  "  he  overtakes  a  coach,  which  they  had  set 
over  night,  having  intelligence  of  a  booty  of  four  hundred  pounds 
in  it.  In  the  coach  was  a  knight,  his  lady,  and  only  one  serving- 
maid,  who,  perceiving  five  horsemen  making  up  to  them,  pre- 
sently imagined  that  they  were  beset ;  and  they  were  confirmed 
In  this  apprehension  by  seeing  them  whisper  to  one  another  and 
ride  backwards  and  forwards.  The  lady,  to  show  she  was  not 
afraid,  takes  a  flageolet  out  of  her  pocket,  and  plays  ;    Du  Vail 


CHAP.  XX.]       THIEVES,  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN.  113 

takes  the  hint,  plays  also,  and  excellently  well,  upon  a  flageolet 
of  his  own,  and  in  this  posture  he  ?  ides  up  to  the  coach  side. 
*  Sir,'  says  he  to  the  person  in  the  coach,  '  your  lady  plays 
excellently,  and  I  doubt  not  but  that  she  dances  as  well ;  will 
you  please  to  walk  out  of  the  coach,  and  let  me  have  the  honor 
to  dance  one  coranto  with  her  upon  the  heath  V  '  Sir,'  said  the 
person  in  the  coach,  '  I  dare  not  deny  anything  to  one  of  your 
quality  and  good  mind ;  you  seem  a  gentleman,  and  your 
request  is  very  reasonable  ;'  which  said,  the  lacquey  opens  the 
boot,  out  comes  the  knight,  Du  Vail  leaps  lightly  off  his  horse, 
and  hands  the  lady  out  of  the  coach.  They  danced,  and  here 
it  was  that  Du  Vail  performed  marvels ;  the  best  master  in 
London,  except  those  that  are  French,  not  being  able  to  show 
such  footing  as  he  did  in  his  great  riding  French  boots.  The 
dancing  being  over,  he  waits  on  the  lady  to  her  coach.  As  the 
knight  was  going  in,  says  Du  Vail  to  him,  '  Sir,  you  have  forgot 
to  pay  the  music'  '  No,  I  have  not,'  replies  the  knight,  and 
putting  his  hand  under  the  seat  of  the  coach,  pulls  out  a  hundred 
pounds  in  a  bag,  and  delivers  it  to  him,  which  Du  Vail  took 
with  a  very  good  grace,  and  courteously  answered,  '  Sir,  you 
are  liberal,  and  shall  have  no  cause  to  repent  your  being  so  ; 
this  liberality  of  yours  shall  excuse  you  the  other  three  hundred 
pounds  :'  and  giving  him  the  word,  that  if  he  met  with  any 
more  of  the  crew  he  might  pass  undisturbed,  he  civilly  takes  his 
leave  of  him. 

"  This  story,  I  confess,  justifies  the  great  kindness  the  ladies 
had  for  Du  Vail ;  for  in  this,  as  in  an  epitome,  are  contained  all 
things  that  set  a  man  off  advantageously,  and  make  him  appear 
as  the  phrase  is,  much  a  gentleman.  First,  here  was  valor,  that 
he  and  but  four  more  durst  assault  a  knight,  a  lady,  a  waiting- 
gentlewoman,  a  lacquey,  a  groom  that  rid  by  to  open  the  gates, 
and  the  coachman,  they  being  six  to  five,  odds  at  football  ;  and 
besides,  Du  Vail  had  much  the  worst  cause,  and  reason  to 
believe,  that  whoever  should  arrive,  would  range  themselves 
on  the  enemy's  party.  Then  he  showed  his  invention  and  saga- 
city,  that  he  could  sur  le  champ,  and,  without  studying,  make 
that  advantage  on  the  lady's  playing  on  the  flageolet.  He 
evinced  his  skill    in  instrumental    music,   by    playing   on    his 


114  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  xx. 

flageolet ;  in  vocal,  by  his  singing ;  for  (as  I  should  have  told 
you  before)  there  being  no  violins,  Du  Vail  sung  the  coranto 
himself.  He  manifested  his  agility  of  body,  by  lightly  dis- 
mounting off  his  horse,  and  with  ease  and  freedom  getting  up 
again,  when  he  took  his  leave  ;  his  excellent  deportment,  by  his 
incomparable  dancing,  and  his  graceful  manner  of  taking  the 
hundred  pounds  ;  his  generosity  in  taking  no  more  ;  his  wit  and 
eloquence,  and  readiness  at  repartees,  in  the  whole  discourse 
with  the  knight  and  lady,  the  greatest  part  of  which  I  have  been 
forced  to  omit." 

The  noise  of  the  proclamation  made  Du  Vail  return  to  Paris; 
but  he  came  back  in  a  short  time  for  want  of  money.  His  reign, 
however,  did  not  last  long  after  his  restoration.  He  made  an 
unlucky  attack,  not  upon  some  ill-bred  passengers,  but  upon 
several  bottles  of  wine,  and  was  taken  in  consequence  at  the 
Hole-in-the-Wall  in  Chandos-street.  His  life  was  interceded 
for  in  vain  ;  he  was  arraigned  and  committed  to  Newgate  ;  and 
executed  at  Tyburn  in  the  27th  year  of  his  age  ;  showers  of 
tears  from  fair  eyes  bedewing  his  fate,  both  while  alive  in  prison 
and  when  dead  at  the  fatal  tree. 

Du  Vall's  success  with  the  ladies  of  those  days,  whose  ama- 
tory taste  was  of  a  turn  more  extensive  than  delicate,  seems  to 
have  made  some  well-dressed  English  gentlemen  jealous.  The 
writer  of  Du  Vall's  life,  who  is  a  man  of  wit,  evidently  has 
something  of  bitterness  in  his  railleries  upon  this  point ;  but  he 
manages  them  very  pleasantly.  He  pretends  that  he  is  an  old 
bachelor,  and  has  never  been  able  to  make  his  way  with  his  fair 
countrywomen,  on  account  of  the  French  valets  that  have  stood 
in  his  way.  He  says  he  had  two  objects  in  writing  the  book. 
"One  is,  that  the  next  Frenchman  that  is  hanged,  may  not 
cause  an  uproar  in  this  imperial  city ;  which  I  doubt  not  but  I 
have  effected.  The  other  is  a  much  harder  task :  to  set  my 
countrymen  on  even  terms  with  the  French,  as  to  the  English 
ladies'  affections.  If  I  should  bring  this  about,  I  should  esteem 
myself  to  have  contributed  much  to  the  good  of  this  kingdom. 

"  One  remedy  there  is,  which,  possibly,  may  conduce  some- 
thing towards  it. 

"  I  have  heard  that  there  is  a  new  invention  of  transfusing  the 


OHAP.  XX.]        THIEVES,  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN.  115 

blood  of  one  animal  into  another,  and  that  it  has  been  experimented 
by  putting  the  blood  of  a  sheep  into  an  Englishman.  I  am 
against  that  way  of  experiments  ;  for,  should  we  make  all  Eng- 
lishmen sheep,  we  should  soon  be  a  prey  to  the  louve. 

"  I  think  I  can  propose  the  making  that  experiment  a  more 
advantageous  way.  I  would  have  all  gentlemen,  who  have 
been  a  full  year  or  more  out  of  France,  be  let  blood  weekly,  or 
oftener,  if  they  can  bear  it.  Mark  how  much  they  bleed  ; 
transfuse  so  much  French  lacquey's  blood  into  them ;  replenish 
these  last  out  of  the  English  footmen,  for  it  is  no  matter  what 
becomes  of  them.  Repeat  this  operation  toties  quoties,  and  in 
process  of  time  you  will  find  this  event :  either  the  English 
gentlemen  will  be  as  much  beloved  as  the  French  lacqueys,  or 
the  French  lacqueys  as  little  esteemed  as  the  English  gentle- 
men." 

Butler  has  left  an  Ode,  sprinkled  with  his  usual  wit,  "  To  the 
happy  Memory  of  the  Most  Renoivned  Du  Vail,"  who, 

—  Like  a  pious  man,  some  years  before 
Th'  arrival  of  his  fatal  hour, 
Made  every  day  he  had  to  live 
To  his  last  minute  a  preparative ; 
Taught  the  wild  Arabs  on  the  road 
To  act  in  a  more  gentle  mode ; 
Take  prizes  more  obligingly  from  those. 
Who  never  had  been  bred  Jilous  ; 
And  hov*f  to  hang  in  a  more  graceful  fashion. 
Than  e'er  was  known  before  to  the  dull  English  nation 

As  it  may  be  thought  proper  that  we  should  end  this  lawless 
article  with  a  good  moral,  we  will  give  it  two  or  three  sentences 
from  Shakspeare  worth  a  whole  volume  of  sermons  against 
thieving.  The  boy  who  belongs  to  FalstafT's  companions,  and 
who  begins  to  see  through  the  shallowness  of  their  cunning  and 
way  of  life,  says  that  Bardolph  stole  a  lute-case,  carried  it 
twelve  miles,  and  sold  it  for  three  halfpence. 

11 


lie  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxi 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A  few  Thoughts  on  Sleep. 

This  is  an  article  for  the  reader  to  think  of,  v  hen  he  or  she  is 
warm  in  bed,  a  little  before  he  goes  to  sleep,  the  clothes  at  his 
ear,  and  the  wind  moaning  in  some  distant  crevice. 

"  Blessings,"  exclaimed  Sancho,  "  on  him  that  first  invented 
sleep!  It  wraps  a  man  all  round  like  a  cloak."  It  is  a  deli- 
cious moment  certainly — that  of  being  well  nestled  in  bed,  and 
feeling  that  you  shall  drop  gently  to  sleep.  The  good  is  to 
come,  not  past  ;  the  limbs  have  been  just  tired  enough  to  render 
the  remaining  in  one  posture  delightful :  the  labor  of  the  day  is 
done.  A  gentle  failure  of  the  perceptions  comes  creeping  over 
one  : — the  spirit  of  consciousness  disengages  itself  more  and 
more,  with  slow  and  hushing  degrees,  like  a  mother  detaching 
her  hand  from  that  of  her  sleeping  child  ; — the  mind  seems  to 
have  a  balmy  lid  closing  over  it,  like  the  eye  : — 'tis  closing  ; — 
'tis  more  closing  ; — 'tis  closed.  The  mysterious  spirit  has  gone 
to  make  its  airy  rounds. 

It  is  said  that  sleep  is  best  before  midnight ;  and  Nature  her- 
Belf,  with  her  darkness  and  chilling  dews,  informs  us  so. 
There  is  another  reason  for  going  to  bed  betimes  :  for  it  is 
universally  acknowledged  that  lying  late  in  the  morning  is  a 
great  shortener  of  life.  At  least,  it  is  never  found  in  company 
with  longevity.  It  also  tends  to  make  people  corpulent.  But 
these  matters  belong  rather  to  the  subject  of  early  rising,  than 
of  sleep. 

Sleep  at  a  late  hour  in  the  morning  is  not  half  so  pleasant  as 
the  more  timely  one.  It  is  sometimes  however  excusable,  espe- 
cially to  a  watchful  or  overworked  head ;  neither  can  we  deny 
the  seducing  merits  of  "  t'other  doze," — the  pleasing  wilfulness 
of  nestling  in  a   new  posture,  when   you  know  you   ought  to  be 


CHAP.  XXI.]  A  FEW.  THOUGHTS  ON  SLEEP.  117 

up,  like  the  rest  of  the  house.  But  then  you  cut  up  the  day, 
and  your  sleep  the  next  night. 

In  the  course  of  the  day,  few  people  think  of  sleeping,  except 
after  dinner;  and  then  it  is  often  rather  a  hovering  and  nodding  on 
the  borders  ofsleep  than  sleep  itself.  This  is  a  privilege  allowable, 
we  think,  to  none  but  the  old,  or  the  sickly,  or  the  very  tired  and 
care-worn  ;  and  it  should  be  well  understood,  before  it  is  exer- 
cised in  company.  To  escape  into  slumber  by  an  argument  ; 
or  to  take  it  as  an  affair  of  course,  only  between  you  and  your 
biliary  duct ;  or  to  assent  with  involuntary  nods  to  all  that  you 
have  just  been  disputing,  is  not  so  well  :  much  less,  to  sit  nod- 
ding and  tottering  beside  a  lady  ;  or  to  be  in  danger  of  dropping 
your  head  into  the  fruit-plate  or  your  host's  face  ;  or  of  waking 
up,  and  saying,  "Just  so,"  to  the  bark  of  a  dog  ;  or  "  Yes,  Ma- 
dam," to  the  black  at  your  elbow. 

Care-worn  people,  however,  might  refresh  themselves  oftener 
with  day-sleep  than  they  do ;  if  their  bodily  state  is  such  as  to 
dispose  them  to  it.  It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  all  care  is 
wakeful.  People  sometimes  sleep,  as  well  as  wake,  by  reason 
of  their  sorrow.  The  difference  seems  to  depend  upon  the  na- 
ture of  their  temperament ;  though  in  the  most  excessive  cases, 
sleep  is  perhaps  Nature's  never-failing  relief,  as  swooning  is 
upon  the  rack.  A  person  with  jaundice  in  his  blood  shall  lie 
down  and  go  to  sleep  at  noon-day,  when  another  of  different 
complexion  shall  find  his  eyes  as  uncloseable  as  a  statue's, 
though  he  has  had  no  sleep  for  nights  together.  Without 
meaning  to  lessen  the  dignity  of  suffering,  which  has  quite 
enough  to  do  with  its  waking  hours,  it  is  this  that  may  often  ac- 
count for  the  profound  sleeps  enjoyed  the  night  before  hazard- 
ous battles,  executions,  and  other  demands  upon  an  over-excited 
spirit. 

The  most  complete  and  healthy  sleep  that  can  be  taken  in  the 
day,  is  in  summer-time,  out  in  a  field.  There  is  perhaps  no 
solitary  sensation  so  exquisite  as  that  of  slumbering  on  the  grass 
or  hay,  shaded  from  the  hot  sun  by  a  tree,  with  the  conscious- 
ness of  a  fresh  but  light  air  running  through  the  wide  atmo- 
sphere, and  the  sky  stretching  far  overhead  upon  all  sides. 
Earth,  and  heaven,   and  a   placid  humanity,  seem  to  have  the 


118  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxi 

creation  to  themselves.  There  is  nothing  between  the  slum- 
berer  and  the  naked  and  glad  innocence  of  nature. 

Next  to  this,  but  at  a  long  interval,  the  most  relishing  snatch 
of  slumber  out  of  bed,  is  the  one  which  a  tired  person  takes,  be- 
fore  he  retires  for  the  night,  while  lingering  in  his  sitting-room. 
The  consciousness  of  being  very  sleepy  and  of  having  the  power 
to  go  to  bed  immediately,  gives  great  zest  to  the  unwillingness 
to  move.  Sometimes  he  sits  nodding  in  his  chair  ;  but  the  sud- 
den and  leaden  jerks  of  the  head  to  which  a  state  of  great  sleepi- 
ness renders  him  liable,  are  generally  too  painful  for  so  luxuri- 
ous a  moment ;  and  he  gets  into  a  more  legitimate  posture,  sit- 
ting sideways  with  his  head  on  the  cliair-back,  or  throwing  his 
legs  up  at  once  on  another  chair,  and  half  I'eclining.  It  is  curi- 
ous, however,  to  find  how  long  an  inconvenient  posture  will  be 
borne  for  the  sake  of  this  foretaste  of  repose.  The  worst  of  it 
is,  that  on  going  to  bed,  the  charm  sometimes  vanishes  ;  per- 
haps from  the  colder  temperature  of  the  chamber  •  for  a  fireside 
is  a  great  opiate. 

Speaking  of  the  painful  positions  into  which  a  sleepy  lounger 
will  get  himself,  it  is  amusing  to  think  of  the  more  fantastic 
attitudes  that  so  often  take  place  in  bed.  If  we  could  add  any- 
thing to  the  numberless  things  that  have  been  said  about  sleep 
by  the  poets,  it  would  be  upon  this  point.  Sleep  never  shows 
himself  a  greater  leveller.  A  man  in  his  waking  moments  may 
look  as  proud  and  self-possessed  as  he  pleases.  He  may  walk 
proudly,  he  may  sit  proudly,  he  may  eat  his  dinner  proudly  ; 
he  may  shave  himself  with  an  air  of  infinite  superiority  ;  in  a 
word,  he  may  show  himself  grand  and  absurd  upon  the  most 
trifling  occasions.  But  Sleep  plays  the  petrifying  magician. 
He  arrests  the  proudest  lord  as  well  as  the  humblest  clown  in 
the  most  ridiculous  postures :  so  that  if  you  could  draw  a  gran- 
dee  from  his  bed  without  waking  him,  no  limb-twisting  fool  in  a 
pantomime  should  create  wilder  laughter.  The  toy  with  the 
Btring  between  its  legs,  is  hardly  a  posture-master  more  extrava- 
gant. Imagine  a  despot  lifted  up  to  the  gaze  of  his  valets,  with 
his  eyes  shut,  his  mouth  open,  his  left  hand  under  his  right  ear, 
his  other  twisted  and  hanging  helplessly  befoi-e  him  like  an  idi- 
ot's, one  knee  lifted  up,  and  the  other  leg  stretched  out,  or  both 


CHAP.  XXI.]  A  FEW  THOUGHTS  ON  SLEEP.  IIH 

knees  huddled  up  together  ; — what  a  scarecrow  to  lodge  majes- 
tic  power  in  ! 

But  Sleep  is  kindly,  even  in  his  tricks ;  and  the  poets  have 
treated  him  with  reverence.  According  to  the  ancient  mytholo- 
gists,  he  had  even  one  of  the  Graces  to  wife.  He  had  a  thou- 
sand sons,  of  whom  the  chief  were  Morpheus,  or  the  Shaper; 
Icelos,  or  the  Likely  ;  Phantasus,  the  Fancy ;  and  Phobetor, 
the  Terror.  His  dwelling  some  writers  place  in  a  dull  and 
darkling  part  of  the  earth  ;  others,  with  greater  compliment,  in 
lieaven  ;  and  others,  with  another  kind  of  propriety,  by  the  sea- 
shore. There  is  a  good  description  of  it  in  Ovid  ;  but  in  these 
abstracted  tasks  of  poetry,  the  moderns  outvie  the  ancients  ;  and 
there  is  nobody  who  has  built  his  bower  for  him  so  finely  as 
Spenser.  Archimago  in  the  first  book  of  the  Faerie  Queene 
(Canto  I.  St.  39),  sends  a  little  spirit  down  to  Morpheus  to  fetch 
him  a  Dream : 

He,  making  speedy  way  through  spersed  ayre, 
And  through  the  workl  of  waters,  wide  and  deepe, 
To  Morpheus'  house  doth  hastily  repaire 
Amid  the  bowels  of  the  earth  full  steepe 
And  low,  where  dawning  day  doth  never  peepe, 
His  dwelling  is.     There,  Tethys  his  wet  bed 
Doth  ever  wash  ;  and  Cynthia  still  doth  steepe 
In  silver  dew  his  ever-drouping  head, 
Whiles  sad  Night  over  him  her  mantle  black  doth  spred 

And  more  to  lull  him  in  his  slumber  soft 
A  trickling  streame  from  high  rocke  tumbling  downe, 
And  ever-drizzling  rain  upon  the  loft. 
Mixed  with  a  murmuring  winde,  much  like  the  soime 
Of  swarming  bees,  did  cast  him  in  a  swoune. 
No  other  noise,  nor  people's  troublous  cryes, 
As  still  are  wont  to  annoy  the  walled  towne. 
Might  there  be  heard ;  but  carelesse  Quiet  lyes, 
Wrapt  in  eternall  silence,  far  from  enimyes. 

Chaucer  has  drawn  the  cave  of  the  same  god  with  greater 
simplicity  ;  but  nothing  can  have  a  more  deep  and  sullen  etTect 
than  his  cliflfs  and  cold  running  waters.  It  seems  as  real  as  an 
actual  solitude,  or  some  quaint  old  picture  in  a  book  of  travels 

11* 


120  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  xx'. 

ill  Tartary.  He  is  telling  the  story  of  Ceyx  and  Alcyone  in  tht 
ooem  called  his  Dream.  Juno  tells  a  messenger  to  go  to  Mor- 
pheus  and  "  bid  him  creep  into  the  body"  of  the  drowned  king, 
to  let  his  wife  know  the  fatal  event  by  his  apparition. 

This  messenger  tooke  leave,  and  went 
Upon  his  way ;  and  never  he  stent 
Till  he  came  to  the  dark  valley, 
That  stant  betweene  rockes  twey. 
There  never  yet  grew  corne,  ne  gras, 
Ne  tree,  ne  naught  that  aught  was, 
Beast,  ne  man,  ne  naught  else ; 
Save  that  there  were  a  few  wells 
Came  running  fro  the  cliffs  adowne, 
That  made  a  deadly  sleeping  soune, 
And  runnen  downe  right  by  a  cave. 
That  was  under  a  rocky  grave. 
Amid  the  valley,  wonder-deepe. 
There  these  goddis  lay  asleepe, 
Morpheus  and  Eclympasteire, 
That  was  the  god  of  Sleepis  heire. 
That  slept  and  did  none  other  worke. 

Where  the  credentials  of  this  new  son  and  heir  Eclympasteire 
are  to  be  found,  we  know  not ;  but  he  acts  very  much,  it  must 
be  allowed,  like  an  heir  presumptive,  in  sleeping,  and  doing 
"  none  other  work." 

We  dare  not  trust  ourselves  with  many  quotations  upon  sleej 
from  the  poets :  they  are  so  numerous  as  well  as  beautiful 
We  must  content  ourselves  with  mentioning  that  our  two  most 
favorite  passages  are  one  in  the  Philoctetes  of  Sophocles,  admi- 
rable for  its  contrast  to  a  scene  of  terrible  agony,  which  it  closes  ; 
and  the  other  the  following  address  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's 
tragedy  of  Valentinian,  the  hero  of  which  is  also  a  sufferer  under 
bodily  torment.  He  is  in  a  chair,  slumbering  ;  and  these  most 
exquisite  lines  are  gently  sung  with  music. 

Care-charming  Sleep,  thou  easer  of  all  woes, 
Brother  to  £/eath,  sweetly  thyself  dispose 
<"  On  this  afflicted  prince.     Fall  like  a  cloud 

In  gentle  showers  :  give  nothing  that  is  loud 
Or  painful  to  his  slumbers :  easy,  sweet, 


CHAP.  XXI.]  A  FEW  THOUGHTS  ON  SLEEP  121 

And  as  a  purling  stream,  thou  son  of  Nighc, 
Pass  by  his  troubled  senses ;  sing  his  pain 
Like  hollow  murmuring  wind,  or  silver  rain : 
Into  this  prince,  gently,  oh  gently  slide, 
And  kiss  him  into  slumbers,  like  a  bride. 

How  earnest  and  prayer-like  are  these  pauses  !  How  lightly 
sprinkled,  and  yet  how  deeply  settling,  like  rain,  the  fancy  ! 
How  quiet,  affectionate,  and  perfect  the  conclusion ! 

Sleep  is  most  graceful  in  an  infant ;  soundest,  in  one  who  has 
been  tired  in  the  open  air  ;  completest,  to  the  seaman  after  a  hard 
voyage  ;  most  welcome,  to  the  mind  haunted  with  one  idea  j 
most  touching  to  look  at,  in  the  parent  that  has  wept ;  lightest, 
in  the  playful  child ;  proudest,  in  the  bride  adored. 


122  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxii 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

The  Fair  Revenge. 

The  elements  of  this  story  are  to  be  found  in  the  old  poem  called 
Albion's  England,  to  which  we  referred  in  the  article  on  Charles 
Brandon  and  Mary  Queen  of  France. 

Aganippus,  king  of  Argos,  dying  without  heirs  male,  be- 
queathed his  throne  to  his  only  daughter,  the  beautiful  and  be- 
loved Daphles.  This  female  succession  was  displeasing  to  a 
nobleman  who  held  large  possessions  on  the  frontiers  ;  and  he 
came  for  the  first  time  towards  the  court,  not  to  pay  his  respects 
to  the  new  queen,  but  to  give  her  battle.  Doracles  (for  that  was 
his  name)  was  not  much  known  by  the  people.  He  had  distin- 
guished himself  for  as  jealous  an  independence  as  a  subject 
could  well  assume  ;  and  though  he  had  been  of  use  in  repelling 
invasion  during  the  latter  years  of  the  king,  he  had  never  made 
his  appearance  to  receive  his  master's  thanks  personally.  A 
correspondence,  however,  was  understood  to  have  gone  on  be- 
tween him  and  several  noblemen  about  the  court ;  and  there 
were  those  who,  in  spite  of  his  inattention  to  popularity,  sus- 
pected that  it  would  go  hard  with  the  young  queen,  when  the 
two  armies  came  face  to  face. 

But  neither  these  subtl'.  statesmen,  nor  the  ambitious  young 
soldier  Doracles,  were  aware  of  the  effects  to  be  produced  by  a 
strong  personal  attachment.  The  young  queen,  amiable  as  she 
was  beautiful,  had  involuntarily  baffled  his  expectations  from 
her  courtiers,  by  exciting  in  the  minds  of  some  a  real  disinte- 
rested regard,  while  others  nourished  a  hope  of  sharing  her 
throne  instead.  At  least  they  speculated  upon  becoming  each 
the  favorite  minister,  and  held  it  a  better  thing  to  reign  under 
that  title  and  a  charming  mistress,  than  be  the  servants  of  a 
master,  wilful  and  domineering.     By  the  people  she  was  adored  j 


CHAP.  XXII.]  THE  FAIR  REVENGE.  123 

and  when  she  came  riding  out  of  her  palace  on  the  morning  of 
the  fight,  with  an  unaccustomed  spear  standing  up  in  its  rest  by 
her  side,  her  diademed  hair  flowing  a  little  off*  into  the  wind,  her 
face  paler  than  usual,  but  still  tinted  with  its  roses,  and  a  look 
in  which  confidence  in  the  love  of  her  subjects,  and  tenderness 
for  the  wounds  they  were  going  to  encounter,  seemed  to  contend 
for  the  expression,  the  shout  which  they  sent  up  would  have  told 
a  stouter  heart  than  a  traitor's  that  the  royal  chamber  was 
secure. 

The  queen,  during  tne  conflict,  remained  in  a  tent  upon  an 
eminence,  to  which  the  younger  leaders  vied  who  should  best 
spur  up  their  smoking  horses,  to  bring  her  good  news  from  time 
to  time.  The  battle  was  short  and  bloody.  Doracles  soon  found 
that  he  had  miscalculated  his  point ;  and  all  his  skill  and  resolu- 
tion could  not  set  the  error  to  rights.  It  was  allowed,  that  if 
either  courage  or  military  talent  could  entitle  him  to  the  throne, 
he  would  have  a  right  to  it ;  but  the  popularity  of  Daphles  sup- 
plied her  cause  with  all  the  ardor  which  a  lax  state  of  subjec- 
tion on  the  part  of  the  more  powerful  nobles  might  have  denied 
it.  When  her  troops  charged,  or  made  any  other  voluntary 
movement,  they  put  all  their  hearts  into  their  blows ;  and  when 
they  were  compelled  to  await  the  enemy,  they  stood  as  inflexible 
as  walls  of  iron.  It  was  like  hammering  upon  metal  statuary  ; 
or  staking  the  fated  horses  upon  spears  riveted  in  stone.  Dora- 
cles was  taken  prisoner.  The  queen,  re-issuing  from  her  tent, 
crowned  with  laurel,  came  riding  down  the  eminence,  and  re- 
mained at  the  foot  with  her  generals,  while  the  prisoners  were 
taken  by.  Her  pale  face  kept  as  royal  a  countenance  of  com- 
posed pity  as  sl*e  could  manage,  while  the  commoner  rebels 
passed  along,  aching  with  their  wounded  arms  fastened  behind, 
and  shaking  back  their  bloody  and  blinding  locks  for  want  of  a 
hand  to  part  them.  But  the  blood  mounted  to  her  cheeks,  when 
the  proud  and  handsome  Doracles,  whom  she  now  saw  for  the 
first  time,  blushed  deeply  as  he  cast  a  glance  at  his  female  con- 
queror, and  then  stepped  haughtily  along,  hardling  his  gilded 
chains,  as  if  they  were  an  indifferent  ornament.  "  I  have  con- 
quered him,"  thought  s-hc  ;  '^  it  is  a  heavy  blow  to  so  proud  a 
head  ;  and  as  he  looks  not  unamiable,  it  might  be  politic,  as  well 


124  THE  INDICATOR.  [chat,  xxii 

as  courteous  and  kind  in  me,  to  turn  his  submission  into  a  more 
willing  one."  Alas!  pity  was  helping  admiration  to  a  kinder 
set  of  offices  than  the  generous-liearted  queen  suspected.  The 
captive  went  to  his  prison  a  conqueror  after  all,  for  Daphlea 
loved  him. 

The  second  night,  after  having  exhibited  in  her  manners  a 
strange  mixture  of  joy  and  seriousness,  and  signified  to  her 
counsellors  her  intention  of  setting  the  prisoner  free,  she  releas- 
ed him  with  her  own  hands.  Many  a  step  did  she  hesitate  as 
she  went  down  the  stairs ;  and  when  she  came  to  the  door,  she 
jhed  a  full,  but  soft,  and,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  a  wilful  and 
refreshing  flood  of  tears,  humbling  herself  for  her  approaching 
'.ask.  When  she  had  entered,  she  blushed  deeply,  and  then 
.urning  as  pale,  stood  for  a  minute  silent  and  without  emotion. 
She  then  said,  "  Thy  queen,  Doracles,  has  come  to  show  thee 
how  kindly  she  can  treat  a  great  and  gallant  subject,  who  did 
flot  know  her;"  and  with  these  words,  and  almost  before  she 
was  aware,  the  prisoner  was  released,  and  preparing  to  go.  He 
ippeared  surprised,  but  not  off  his  guard,  nor  in  any  temper  to 
be  over  grateful.  "  Name,"  said  he,  "  O  queen,  the  conditions 
on  which  I  depart,  and  they  will  be  faithfully  kept."  Daphles 
moved  her  lips,  but  they  spoke  not.  S'he  waved  her  head  and 
hand  with  a  deadly  smile,  as  if  freeing  him  from  all  conditions, 
and  he  was  turning  to  go,  when  she  fell  senseless  on  the  floor. 
The  haughty  warrior  raised  her  with  more  impatience  than  good- 
will. He  could  guess  at  love  in  a  woman ;  but  he  had  but  a 
mean  opinion  both  of  it  and  her  sex  ;  and  the  deadly  struggle  in 
the  heart  of  Daphles  did  not  help  him  to  distinguish  the  romantic 
passion  which  had  induced  her  to  put  all  her  past  and  virgin 
notions  of  love  into  his  person,  from  the  commonest  liking  that 
might  flatter  his  soldierly  vanity. 

The  queen,  on  awaking  from  her  swoon,  found  herself  com- 
pelled, in  very  justice  to  the  intensity  of  a  true  passion,  to  ex- 
plain how  pity  had  brought  it  upon  her.  "  I  might  ask  it,"  said 
she,  "  Doracles,  in  return,"  and  here  she  resumed  something 
of  her  queen-like  dignity ;  "  but  I  feel  that  my  modesty  will  be 
sufficiently  saved  by  the  name  of  your  wife ;  and  a  substantial 
throne,  with  a  return  that  shall  nothing  perplex  or  interfere  with 


CHAP.  XXII.]  THE  FAIR  REVENGE.  123 

thee,  I  do  now  accordingly  offer  thee,  not  as  the  condition  of  thy 
freedom,  but  as  a  diversion  of  men's  eyes  and  thoughts  from 
what  they  will  think  ill  in  me,  if  they  find  me  rejected."  And 
in  getting  out  that  hard  word,  her  voice  faltered  a  little,  and  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears. 

Doracles,  with  the  best  grace  his  lately-defeated  spirit  could 
assume,  spoke  in  willing  terms  of  accepting  her  offer.  They 
left  the  prison,  and  his  full  pardon  having  been  proclaimed,  the 
courtiers,  with  feasts  arid  entertainments,  vied  who  should  seem 
best  to  approve  their  mistress's  choice,  for  so  they  were  quick  to 
understand  it.  The  late  captive,  who  was  really  as  graceful  and 
accomplished  as  a  proud  spirit  would  let  him  be,  received  and 
returned  all  their  attention  in  princely  sort,  and  Daphles  was 
beginning  to  hope  that  he  might  turn  a  glad  eye  upon  her  some 
day,  when  news  was  brought  her  that  he  had  gone  from  court, 
nobody  knew  whither.  The  next  intelligence  was  too  certain. 
He  had  passed  the  frontiers,  and  was  leaguing  with  her  enemies 
for  another  struggle. 

From  that  day  gladness,  though  not  kindness,  went  out  of  the 
face  of  Daphles.  She  wrote  him  a  letter,  without  a  word  of  re- 
proach in  it,  enough  to  bi'ing  back  the  remotest  heart  that  had 
the  least  spark  of  sympathy  ;  but  he  only  answered  it  in  a  spirit 
which  showed  that  he  regarded  the  deepest  love  but  as  a  wanton 
trifle.  That  letter  touched  her  kind  wits.  She  had  had  a  paper 
drawn  up,  leaving  him  her  throne  in  case  she  should  die  ;  but 
some  of  her  ministers,  availing  themselves  of  her  enfeebled 
spirit,  had  summoned  a  meeting  of  the  nobles,  at  which  she  was 
to  preside  in  the  dress  she  wore  on  the  day  of  victory,  the  sight  of 
which,  it  was  thought,  with  the  arguments  which  they  meant  to  use, 
would  prevail  upon  the  assembly  to  urge  her  to  a  revocation  of 
the  bequest.  Her  women  dressed  her  whilst  she  was  almost  un- 
conscious of  what  they  were  doing,  for  she  had  now  begun  to 
fade  quickly,  body  as  well  as  mind.  They  put  on  her  the 
white  garments  edged  with  silver  waves,  in  remembrance  of  the 
stream  of  Inachus,  the  founder  of  the  Argive  monarchy ;  the 
spear  was  brought  out,  to  be  stuck  by  the  side  of  the  throne, 
instead  of  the  sceptre  ;  and  their  hands  prepared  to  put  the  same 
laurel  on  her  head  which  bound  its  healthy  white  temples  when 


126  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxn 

she  sat  on  horseback  and  saw  the  prisoner  go  by.  But  at  sight 
of  its  twisted  and  withered  green,  she  took  it  in  her  hand,  and 
looking  about  her  in  her  chair  with  an  air  of  momentary  recol- 
lection,  began  picking  it,  and  letting  the  leaves  fall  upon  the 
floor.  She  went  on  thus,  leaf  after  leaf,  looking  vacantly  down- 
wards, and  when  she  had  stripped  the  circle  half  round,  she 
leaned  her  cheek  against  the  side  of  her  sick  chair,  and  shutting 
her  eyes  quietly,  so  died. 

The  envoys  from  Argos  went  to  the  court  of  Calydon,  where 
Doracles  then  was,  and  bringing  him  the  diadem  upon  a  black 
cushion,  informed  him  at  once  of  the  death  of  the  queen,  and  her 
nomination  of  him  to  the  throne.  He  showed  little  more  than  a 
ceremonious  gravity  at  the  former  news ;  but  could  ill  contain 
his  joy  at  the  latter,  and  set  off  instantly  to  take  possession. 
Among  the  other  nobles  who  feasted  him,  was  one  who,  having 
been  the  companion  of  the  late  king,  had  become  a  second  father 
to  his  unhappy  daughter.  The  new  prince  observing  the  me- 
lancholy  which  he  scarcely  affected  to  repress,  and  seeing  him 
look  up  occasionally  at  a  picture  which  had  a  veil  over  it,  asked 
him  what  the  picture  was  that  seemed  to  disturb  him  so,  and 
why  it  was  veiled.  "  If  it  be  the  portrait  of  the  late  king," 
said  Doracles,  "  pray  think  me  worthy  of  doing  honor  to  it,  for 
he  was  a  noble  prince.  Unveil  it,  pray.  I  insist  upon  it.  What ! 
am  I  not  worthy  to  look  upon  my  predecessors,  Pborbas  ?"  And 
at  these  words  he  frowned  impatiently.  Phorbas,  with  a  trem- 
bling hand,  but  not  for  want  of  courage,  withdrew  the  black 
covering  ;  and  the  portrait  of  Daphles,  in  all  her  youth  and 
beauty,  flashed  upon  the  eyes  of  Doracles.  It  was  not  a  melan- 
choly  face.  It  was  drawn  before  misfortune  had  touched  it,  and 
sparkled  with  a  blooming  beauty,  in  which  animal  spirits  and 
good-nature  contended  for  predominance.  Doracles  paused  and 
seemed  struck.  "  The  possessor  of  that  face,"  said  he,  inquir- 
ing,  "  could  never  have  been  so  sorrowful  as  I  have  heard  ?" 
"  Pardon  me,  sir,"  answered  Phorbas,  "  I  was  as  another  father 
to  her,  and  knew  all."  "It  cannot  be,"  returned  the  prince. 
The  old  man  begged  his  other  guests  to  withdraw  a  while,  and  then 
told  Doracles  how  many  fond  and  despairing  things  the  queen 
had  said  of  him,  both  before  her  wits  began  to  fail  and  after. 


cnxr.  xxnj  THE  FAIR  REVENGE.  1^7 

"  Her  wits  to  fail !"  murmured  the  king  ;  "  I  have  known  what 
it  is  to  feel  almost  a  mad  impatience  of  the  will ;  but  I  knew 
not  that  these  gentle  creatures,  women,  could  so  feel  for  such  a 
trifle."  Phorbas  brought  out  the  laurel-crown,  and  told  him 
how  the  half  of  it  became  bare.  The  impatient  blood  of  Dora- 
cles  mounted,  but  not  in  anger,  to  his  face  ;  and,  breaking  up 
the  party,  he  requested  that  the  picture  might  be  removed  to  his 
own  chamber,  promising  to  return  it. 

A  whole  year,  however,  did  he  keep  it ;  and  as  he  had  no 
foreign  enemies  to  occupy  his  time,  nor  was  disposed  to  enter  into 
the  common  sports  of  peace,  it  was  understood  that  he  spent  the 
greatest  part  of  his  time,  when  he  was  not  in  council,  in  the  room 
where  the  picture  hung.  In  truth,  the  image  of  the  once  smil- 
ing Daphles  haunted  him,  wherever  he  went ;  and  to  ease  him- 
self  of  the  yearning  of  wishing  her  alive  again  and  seeing  hei 
face,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  being  with  it  as  much  as  possible. 
His  self-will  turned  upon  him,  even  in  that  gentle  shape.  Mil- 
lions of  times  did  he  wish  back  the  loving  author  of  his  fortunes, 
whom  he  had  treated  with  so  clownish  an  ingratitude  ;  and  mil- 
lions of  times  did  the  sense  of  the  impotence  of  his  wish  run  up 
in  red  hurry  to  his  cheeks,  and  help  to  pull  them  into  a  gaunt 
melancholy.  But  this  is  not  a  repaying  sorrow  to  dwell  upon. 
He  was  one  day,  after  being  in  vain  expected  at  council,  found 
lying  madly  on  the  floor  of  the  room,  dead.  He  had  torn  the 
portrait  from  the  wall.  His  dagger  was  in  his  heart,  and  his 
cheek  lay  upon  that  blooming  and  smiling  face,  which,  had  it 
been  living,  would  never  have  looked  so  at  being  revenged. 

12 


t28  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxii 


CHAPTER  XXIII.  I 

Spirit  of  the  Ancient  Mythology. 

From  having  a  different  creed  of  our  own,  and  always  encoun- 
tering the  heathen  mythokigy  in  a  poetical  and  fabulous  shape, 
we  are  apt  to  have  a  false  idea  of  the  religious  feeling  of  the 
ancients.  We  are  in  the  habit  of  supposing,  whatever  we  allow 
when  we  come  to  reason  upon  the  point,  that  they  regarded 
their  fables  in  the  same  poetical  light  as  ourselves  ;  that  they 
could  not  possibly  put  faith  in  Jupiter,  Neptune,  and  Pluto  ;  in 
the  sacrifice  of  innocent  turtle-doves,  the  libation  of  wine,  and 
the  notions  about  Tartarus  and  Ixion. 

Undoubtedly  there  were  multitudes  of  free  thinkers  in  the 
ancient  world.  Most  of  the  Greek  poets  and  philosophers 
appear  to  have  differed  with  the  literal  notions  of  the  many.* 
A  system  of  refined  theism  is  understood  to  have  been  taught  to 
the  initiated  in  the  celebrated  Mysteries.  The  doctrines  of 
Epicurus  were  so  prevalent  in  the  most  intellectual  age  of 
Rome,  that  Lucretius  wrote  a  poem  upon  them,  in  which  he 
treats  their  founder  as  a  divinity  ;  and  Virgil,  in  the  well-known 
passage  of  the  Georgics,  "  Felix  qui  potuit,"  &c.,  exalts  either 
Epicurus  or  Lucretius  as  a  blessed  being,  who  put  hell  and 
terroi  under  his  feet.  A  sickly  temperament  appears  to  have 
made  him  wish,  rather  than  be  able,  to  carry  his  own  scepticism 
so  far :  yet  he  insinuates  his  belief  in  Tartarus,  in  the  sixth 
book  of  his  epic  poem,  where  ^neas  and  the  Sibyl,  after  the 

*  It  is  remarkable  that  ^schylus  and  Euripides,  the  two  dramatists 
whose  faith  in  the  national  religion  was  most  doubted,  are  said  to  have  met 
with  strange  and  violent  deaths.  The  latter  was  torn  to  pieces  by  dogs,  and 
the  former  killed  by  a  tortoise  which  an  eagle  let  fall  upon  his  bald  head, 
in  mistake  for  a  stone.  These  exits  from  the  scene  look  very  like  the 
retributive  death-beds  which  the  bigots  of  all  religions  atre  so  fond  of  ascrib- 
ing to  one  another. 


iHAF.  xxiii.]     SPIRIT  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MYTHOLOGY.  ]29 

description  of  the  lower  world,  go  out  through  the  ivory  gate, 
which  was  the  passage  of  false  visions.*  Caesar,  according  to 
a  speech  of  his  in  Sallust,  derided  the  same  notions  in  open 
senate  ;  and  Cicero,  in  other  parts  of  his  writings,  as  well  as  in 
a  public  pleading,  speaks  of  them  as  fables  and  impertinence, — 
"  ineptiis  ac  fabulis." 

But  however  this  plain-dealing  may  look  on  the  part  of  the 
men  of  letters,  there  is  reason  to  believe,  that  even  in  those 
times,  the  people,  in  general,  were  strong  upon  the  points  oi 
faith.  The  extension  of  the  Gi'eek  philosophy  may  have  insen- 
sibly rendered  them  familiar  with  latitudes  of  interpretation  on 
the  part  of  others.  They  would  not  think  it  impious  in  Cicero 
and  Cato  to  have  notions  of  the  Supreme  Being  more  consistent 
with  the  elevation  of  their  minds.  But  for  themselves,  they 
adhered  from  habit,  to  the  literal  creed  of  their  ancestors,  as  the 
Greek  populace  had  done  before  them.  The  jealous  enemies 
of  Socrates  contrived  to  have  him  put  to  death  on  a  charge  ot 
irreverence  for  the  gods.  A  frolic  of  the  libertine  Alcibiades, 
which,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  was  in  bad  taste — the  defacing  the 
statues  of  Mercury — was  followed  with  important  consequences. 
The  history  of  Socrates  had  the  effect,  in  after  times,  at  least  in 
the  ancient  world,  of  saving  philosophical  speculators  from  the 
vindictive  egotism  of  opinion.  But  even  in  the  days  of  Augus- 
tus, Ovid  wrote  a  popular  work  full  of  mythological  fables  ; 
and  Virgil  himself,  whose  creed,  perhaps,  only  rejected  what 
was  unkindly,  gave  the  hero  of  his  intended  popular  epic  the 
particular  appellation  of  pious.  That  Augustus  should  pique 
himself  on  the  same  attribute  proves  little  ;  for  he  was  a  cold- 
blooded man  of  the  world,  and  could  play  the  hypocrite  for  the 
worst  and  most  despotic  purposes.  Did  he  now  and  then  lecture 
his  poetical  friends  upon  this  point,  respecting  their  own  appear- 
ances with  the  world  ?  There  is  a  curious  ode  of  Horace 
(Book  I.,  Ode  xxxiv.),  in  which  he  says,  that  he  finds  himself 
compelled  to  give  up  his  sceptical  notions,  and  to  attend  more 
to  public  worship,  because  it  had  thundered  one  day  when  the 

*  Did  Dante  forget  this,  when  he  "-.ook  Virgil  for  his  guide  through  the 
Inferno  ? 


130  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxin 

sky  was  cloudless.  The  critics  are  divided  in  their  opinion  of 
his  object  in  this  ode.  Some  think  him  in  earnest,  others  in 
jest.  It  is  the  only  thing  of  the  sort  in  his  works,  and  is,  at  all 
events,  of  an  equivocal  character,  that  would  serve  his  purpose 
on  either  side  of  the  question. 

The  opinions  of  the  ancients  upon  religion  may  be  divided 
into  three  general  classes.  The  great  multitude  believed  any- 
thing ;  the  very  few  disbelieved  everything  ;  the  philosophers 
and  poets  entertained  a  refined  natural  religion,  which,  while  it 
pronounced  upon  nothing,  rejected  what  was  evidently  unworthy 
of  the  spirit  of  creation,  and  regarded  the  popular  deities  as 
personifications  of  its  various  workings.  All  these  classes  had 
their  extravagances,  in  proportion  to  their  ignorance,  or  vicious- 
ness,  or  metaphysical  perplexity.  The  multitude,  whose  no- 
tions were  founded  on  ignorance,  habit,  and  fear,  admitted  many 
absurd,  and  some  cruel  imaginations.  The  mere  man  of  the 
world  measured  everything  by  his  own  vain  and  petty  standard, 
and  thought  the  whole  goods  of  the  universe  a  scramble  for  the 
cunning  and  hypocritical.  The  over-refining  followers  of  Plato, 
endeavoring  to  pierce  into  the  nature  of  things  b)^  the  mere 
effort  of  the  will,  arrived  at  conclusions  visible  to  none  but 
their  own  yearning  and  impatient  eyes,  and  lost  themselves  in 
the  ethereal  dogmatisms  of  Plotinus  and  Porphyry. 

The  greatest  pleasure  arising  to  a  modern  imagination  from 
the  ancient  mythology,  is  in  a  mingled  sense  of  the  old  popular 
belief  and  of  the  philosophical  refinements  upon  it.  We  take 
Apollo,  and  Mercury,  and  Venus,  as  shapes  that  existed  in  popu- 
lar credulity,  as  the  greater  fairies  of  the  ancient  world  :  and 
we  regard  them  at  the  same  time,  as  personifications  of  all  that 
is  beautiful  and  genial  in  the  forms  and  tendencies  of  creation. 
But  the  result,  coming  as  it  does,  too,  through  avenues  of  beau- 
tiful poetry,  both  ancient  and  modern,  is  so  entirely  cheerful, 
that  we  are  apt  to  think  it  must  have  wanted  gravity  to  more 
believing  eyes.  We  fancy  Ihat  the  old  world  saw  nothing  in 
religion  but  lively  and  graceful  shapes,  as  remote  from  the 
more  obscure  and  awful  hintings  of  the  world  unknown,  as 
physics  appear  to  be  from  the  metaphysical ;  as  the  eye  of  a 


OHAP.  XXIII.]     SPIRIT  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MYTHOLOGY.  131 

beautiful  woman  is  from  the  inward  speculations  of  a  Brahmin ; 
or  a  lily  at  noonday  from  the  wide  obscurity  of  night-time. 

This  supposition  appears  to  be  carried  a  great  deal  too  far. 
We  will  not  inquire,  in  this  place,  how  far  the  mass  of  mankind, 
when  these  shapes  were  done  away,  did  or  did  not  escape 
from  a  despotic  anthropomorphitism  ;  nor  how  far  they  were 
driven  by  the  vaguer  fears,  and  the  opening  of  a  more  visible 
eternity,  into  avoiding  the  whole  subject,  rather  than  courting 
it ;  nor  how  it  is,  that  the  nobler  practical  religion  which  was 
afforded  them,  has  been  unable  to  bring  back  their  frightened 
theology  from  the  angry  and  avaricious  pursuits  into  which  they 
fled  for  refuge.  But,  setting  aside  the  portion  of  terror,  of  which 
heathenism  partook  in  common  with  all  faiths  originating  in 
uncultivated  times,  the  ordinary  run  of  pagans  were  perhaps 
more  impressed  with  a  sense  of  the  invisible  world,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  very  visions  presented  to  their  imagination,  than 
the  same  description  of  men  under  a  more  shadowy  system. 
There  is  the  same  difference  between  the  two  things,  as  between 
a  populace  believing  in  fairies,  and  a  populace  not  believing. 
The  latter  is  in  the  high  road  to  something  better,  if  not  drawn 
aside  into  new  terrors  on  the  one  hand  or  mere  worldliness  on 
the  other.  But  the  former  is  led  to  look  out  of  the  mere  worldly 
common-places  about  it,  twenty  times  to  the  other's  once.  It 
has  a  sense  of  a  supernatural  state  of  things,  however  gross. 
It  has  a  link  with  another  world,  from  which  something  like 
gravity  is  sure  to  strike  into  the  most  cheerful  heart.  Every 
forest,  to  the  mind's  eye  of  a  Greek,  was  haunted  with  superior 
intelligences.  Every  stream  had  its  presiding  nymph,  who  was 
thanked  for  the  draught  of  water.  Every  house  had  its  pro- 
tecting gods,  which  had  blessed  the  inmate's  ancestors,  and 
which  would  bless  him  also,  if  he  cultivated  the  social  affec- 
tions :  for  the  same  word  which  expressed  piety  towards  the 
Gods  expressed  love  towards  relations  and  friends.  If  in  all 
this  there  was  nothing  but  the  worship  of  a  more  graceful  hii- 
manity,  there  may  be  worships  much  worse  as  well  as  much 
better.  ,  And  the  divinest  spirit  that  eyer  appeared  on  earth  has 
told  us  that  the  extension  qf  human  sympathy  embraces  all  that 
is  required  of  us,  ei^he^"  to  dq  or  to  foresee. 
■         i2*    ' 


132  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxin 

Imagine  the  feelings  with  which  an  ancient  believer  must 
have  gone  by  the  oracular  oaks  of  Dodona  ;  or  the  calm  groves 
of  the  Eumenides  ;  or  the  fountain  where  Proserpine*  vanished 
under  ground  with  Pluto ;  or  the  Great  Temple  of  the  myste- 
ries at  Eleusis ;  or  the  laurelled  mountain  Parnassus,  on  the 
side  of  which  was  the  temple  of  Delphi,  where  Apollo  was  sup- 
posed  to  be  present  in  person.  Imagine  Plutarch,  a  devout  and 
yet  a  liberal  believer,  when  he  went  to  study  theology  and  phi- 
losophy at  Delphi :  with  what  feelings  must  he  not  have  passed 
along  the  woody  paths  of  the  hill,  approaching  nearer  every 
instant  to  the  divinity,  and  not  sure  that  a  glance  of  light 
through  the  trees  was  not  the  lustre  of  the  god  himself  going 
by  !  This  is  mere  poetry  to  us,  and  very  fine  it  is ;  but  to  him 
it  was  poetry,  and  religion,  and  beauty,  and  gravity,  and  hush- 
ing awe,  and  a  path  as  from  one  world  to  another. 

With  similar  feelings  he  would  cross  the  ocean,  an  element 
that  naturally  detaches  the  mind  from  earth,  and  which  the  an- 
cients regarded  as  especially  doing  so.  He  had  been  in  the 
Carpathian  sea,  the  favorite  haunt  of  Proteus,  who  was  sup- 
posed to  be  gifted  above  every  other  deity  with  a  knowledge  of 
the  causes  of  things.  Towards  evening,  when  the  winds  were 
rising,  and  the  sailors  had  made  their  vows  to  Neptune,  he 
would  think  of  the  old  "  shepherd  of  the  seas  of  yore,"  and 
believe  it  possible  that  he  might  become  visible  to  his  eye- 
sight, driving  through  the  darkling  waters,  and  turning  the 
sacred  wildness  of  his  face  towards  the  blessed  ship. 

In  all  this,  there  is  a  deeper  sense  of  another  world,  than  in 
the  habit  of  contenting  oneself  with  a  few  vague  terms  and  em- 
bodying but  Mammon.  There  is  a  deeper  sense  of  another 
world,  precisely  because  there  is  a  deeper  sense  of  the  present ; 
of  its  varieties,  its  benignities,  its  mystery.  It  was  a  strong 
sense  of  this,  which  made  a  living  poet,  who  is  accounted  very 
orthodox  in  his  religious  opinions,  give  vent,  in  that  fine  sonnet, 
lo  his  impatience  at  seeing  the  beautiful  planet  we  live  upon, 
with  all  its  starry  wonders  about  it,  so  little  thought  of,  com- 
pared with  wliat  is  ridiculously  called  the  world.  He  seems  to 
have  dreaded  the  symptom,  as  an  evidence  of  materialism,  and 
of  the  planet's  being  dry  self-e-xisting  things,  peopled  witli  mere 


CHAP   xxiii.]     SPIRIT  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MYTHOLOGY.  133 

successive  mortalities,  and  unconnected  with  any  superin- 
tendence or  consciousness  in  the  universe  about  them.  It  is 
abhorrent  from  all  we  think  and  feel,  that  they  should  be  so  : 
and  yet  Love  might  make  heavens  of  them,  if  they  were. 

"  The  world  is  too  much  with  us.     Late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending  we  lay  waste  our  powers ; 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours  : 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon ! 
This  sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon  ; 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours, 
And  are  up-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers  ; 
For  this,  for  everything,  we  are  out  of  tune  ; 
It  moves  us  not. — Great  God  !  I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn, 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea. 
Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlcrn : 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  coming  from  the  sea. 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn  " 


134  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  xxiv. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Getting  up  on  Cold  Mornings. 

An  Italian  author — Giulio  Cordara,  a  Jesuit — has  written  a 
poem  upon  insects,  which  he  begins  by  insisting,  that  those  trou- 
blesome and  abominable  little  animals  were  created  for  our 
annoyance,  and  that  they  were  certainly  not  inhabitants  of 
Paradise.  We  of  the  north  may  dispute  this  piece  of  theology  : 
but  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  as  clear  as  the  snow  on  the  house- 
tops, that  Adam  was  not  under  the  necessity  of  shaving ;  and 
that  when  Eve  walked  out  of  her  delicious  bower,  she  did  not 
step  upon  ice  three  inches  thick. 

Some  people  say  it  is  a  very  easy  thing  to  get  up  of  a  cold 
morning.  You  have  only,  they  tell  you,  to  take  the  resolution ; 
and  the  thing  is  done.  This  may  be  very  true  ;  just  as  a  boy  at 
school  has  only  to  take  a  flogging,  and  the  thing  is  over.  But 
we  have  not  at  all  made  up  our  minds  upon  it ;  and  we  find  it 
a  very  pleasant  exercise  to  discuss  the  matter,  candidly,  before 
we  get  up.  This  at  least  is  not  idling,  though  it  may  be  lying. 
It  affords  an  excellent  answer  to  those,  who  ask  how  lying  in 
bed  can  be  indulged  in  by  a  reasoning  being — a  rational  crea- 
ture. How  !  Why  with  the  argument  calmly  at  work  in  one's 
head,  and  the  clothes  over  one's  shoulder.  Oh  !  it  is  a  fine  way 
of  spending  a  sensible,  impartial  half-hour. 

If  these  people  would  be  more  charitable,  they  would  get  on 
with  their  argument  better.  But  they  are  apt  to  reason  so  ill, 
and  to  assert  so  dogmatically,  that  one  could  wish  to  have  them 
stand  round  one's  bed  of  a  bitter  morning,  and  lie  before  their 
faces.  They  ought  to  hear  both  sides  of  the  bed,  the  inside  and 
out.  If  they  cannot  entertain  themselves  with  their  own  thoughts 
for  half  an  hour  or  so,  it  is  not  the  fault  of  those  who  can. 

Candid  inquiries  mto  one's  decumbency,  besides  the  greater 
or  less  privileges  to  be  allowed  a  man  in  proportion  to  his  ability 


CHAP.  XXIV.]       GETTING  UP  ON  COLD  MORNINGS.  135 

of  keeping  early  hours,  the  work  given  his  faculties,  &c.,  will  at 
least  concede  their  due  merits  to  such  representations  as  the  follow- 
ing. In  the  first  place, says  the  injured  but  calm  appealer,  I  have 
been  warm  all  night,  and  find  my  system  in  astate  perfectly  suita- 
ble to  a  warm-blooded  animal.  To  get  outof  this  siate  into  the  cold, 
besides  the  inharmonious  and  uncritical  abruptness  of  the  transi- 
tion, is  so  unnatural  to  such  a  creature,  that  the  poets,  refining 
upon  the  tortures  of  the  damned,  make  one  of  their  greatest 
agonies  consist  in  being  suddenly  transported  from  heat  to  cold 
— from  fire  to  ice.  They  are  "  haled"  out  of  their  "  beds,"  says 
Milton,  by  "  harpy-footed  furies," — fellows  who  come  to  call 
them.  On  my  first  movement  towards  the  anticipation  of  getting 
up,  I  find  that  such  parts  of  the  sheets  and  bolster  as  are  exposed 
to  the  air  of  the  room,  are  stone-cold.  On  opening  my  eyes,  the 
first  thing  that  meets  them  is  my  own  breath  rolling  forth,  as  if 
in  the  open  air,  like  smoke  out  of  a  chimney.  Think  of  this 
symptom.  Then  I  turn  my  eyes  sideways,  and  see  the  window 
all  frozen  over.  Think  of  that.  Then  the  servant  comes  in. 
"  It  is  very  cold  this  morning,  is  it  not  ?" — "  Very  cold,  sir." — 
"Very  cold  indeed,  isn't  it?" — "Very  cold  indeed,  sir." — 
"  More  than  usually  so,  isn't  it,  even  for  this  weather  ?"  Here 
the  servant's  wit  and  good  nature  are  put  to  a  considerable  test, 
and   the  inquirer  lies  on  thorns  for  the  answer.)     "Why,  sir, 

I  think  it  is."    (Good  creature!     There  is  not  a  better, 

or  more  truth-telling  servant  going.)  "  I  must  rise,  however — 
get  me  some  warm  water." — Here  comes  a  fine  interval  between 
the  departure  of  the  servant  and  the  arrival  of  the  hot  water ; 
during  which,  of  course,  it  is  of  "no  use  ?"  to  get  up.  The  hot 
water  comes.  "  Is  it  quite  hot  ?" — "  Yes,  sir." — "  Perhaps  too 
hot  for  shaving  ;  I  must  wait  a  little  ?" — "  No,  sir,  it  will  just 
do."  (There  is  an  over-nice  propriety  sometimes,  an  officious  zeal 
of  virtue,  a  little  troublesome.)  "Oh — the  shirt — you  must  air 
my  clean  shirt; — linen  gets  very  damp  this  weather." — "  Yes, 
sir."  Here  another  delicious  five  minutes.  A  knock  at  the 
door.  "  Oh,  the  shirt — very  well.  My  stockings — I  think  the 
stockings  had  better  be  aired  too." — "  Very  well,  sir." — Here 
another  interval.  At  length  everything  is  ready,  except  my- 
self.    I  now,  continues  ou     incumbent  (a  happy  word,   by  the 


136  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxiv 

bye,  for  a  country  vicar) — I  now  cannot  help  thinking  a  good 
deal — who  can  ? — upon  the  unnecessary  and  villainous  custom 
of  shaving  :  it  is  a  thing  so  unmanly  (here  I  nestle  closer) — so 
effeminate  (here  I  recoil  from  an  unlucky  step  into  the  colder 
part  of  the  bed). — No  wonder  that  the  Queen  of  France  took 
part  with  the  rebels  against  that  degenerate  King,  her  husband, 
who  first  affronted  her  smooth  visage  with  a  face  like  her  own. 
The  Emperor  Julian  never  showed  the  luxuriancy  of  his  genius 
to  better  advantage  than  in  reviving  the  flowing  beard.  Look 
at  Cardinal  Bembo's  picture — at  Michael  Angelo's — at  Titian's 
— at  Shakspeare's — at  Fletcher's — at  Spenser's — at  Chaucei^s 
— at  Alfred's — at  Plato's — I  could  name  a  great  man  for  every 
tickof  my  watch. — Look  at  the  Turks,  a  grave  and  otiose  peo- 
ple.— Think  of  Haroun  Al  Raschid  and  Bed-ridden  Hassan. — 
Think  of  Wortley  Montague,  the  worthy  son  of  his  mother, 
above  the  prejudice  of  his  time. — Look  at  the  Persian  gentlemen, 
whom  one  is  ashamed  of  meeting  about  the  suburbs,  their  dress 
and  appearance  are  so  much  finer  than  our  own. — Lastly,  think 
of  the  razor  itself — how  totally  opposed  to  every  sensation  of 
bed — how  cold,  how  edgy,  how  hard  !  how  utterly  different  from 
anything  like  the  warm  and  circling  amplitude,  which 

Sweetly  recommends  itself 
Unto  our  gentle  senses. 

Add  to  this,  benumbed  fingers,  which  may  help  you  to  cut  your- 
self, a  quivering  body,  a  frozen  towel,  and  a  ewer  full  of  ice  ; 
and  he  that  says  there  is  nothing  to  oppose  in  all  this,  only 
shows  that  he  has  no  merit  in  opposing  it. 

Thomson,  the  poet,  who  exclaims  in  his  Seasons — 

Falsely  luxurious  !     Will  not  man  awake  ? 

used  to  lie  in  bed  till  noon,  because  he  said  he  had  no  motive  in 
getting  up.  He  could  imagine  the  good  of  rising  ;  but  then  he 
could  also  imagine  the  good  of  lying  still ;  and  his  exclamation, 
it  must  be  allowed,  was  made  upon  summer-time,  not  winter. 
We  must  propoition  the  argument  to  the  individual  character. 
A  money-getter  may  be  drawn  out  of  his  bed  by  three  or  four 


CHAP.  XXIV.]      GETTING  UP  ON  COLD  MORNINGS.  137 

pence ;  but  this  will  not  suffice  for  a  student.  A  proud  man 
may  say,  "  What  shall  I  think  of  myself,  if  I  don't  get  up?" 
but  the  more  humble  one  will  be  content  to  waive  this  prodigious 
notion  of  himself,  out  of  respect  to  his  kindly  bed.  The  mecha- 
nical man  shall  get  up  without  any  ado  at  all ;  and  so  shall  the 
barometer.  An  ingenious  lier  in  bed  will  find  hard  matter  of 
di.scussion  even  on  the  score  of  health  and  longevity.  He  will 
ask  us  for  our  proofs  and  precedents  of  the  ill  effects  of  lying 
later  in  cold  weather;  and  sophisticate  much  on  the  advantages 
of  an  even  temperature  of  body  ;  of  the  natural  propensity 
(pretty  universal)  to  have  one's  way  ;  and  of  the  animals  that 
roll  themselves  up,  and  sleep  all  the  winter.  As  to  longevity, 
he  will  ask  whether  the  longest  is  of  necessity  the  best ;  and 
whether  Holborn  is  the  handsomest  street  in  London. 


13S  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxr 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

The  Old  Gentleman. 

Our  Old  Gentleman,  in  order  to  be  exclusively  himself,  must  be 
either  a  widower  or  a  bachelor.  Suppose  the  former.  We  do 
not  mention  his  precise  age,  which  would  be  invidious ; — nor 
whether  he  wears  his  own  hair  or  a  wig ;  which  would  be 
wanting  in  universality.  If  a  wig,  it  is  a  compromise  between 
the  more  modern  scratch  and  the  departed  glory  of  the  toupee. 
If  his  own  hair,  it  is  white,  in  spite  of  his  favorite  grandson,  who 
used  to  get  on  the  chair  behind  him,  and  pull  the  silver  hairs  out, 
ten  years  ago.  If  he  is  bald  at  top,  the  hair-dresser,  hovering 
and  breathing  about  him  like  a  second  youth,  takes  care  to  give 
the  bald  place  as  much  powder  as  the  covered;  in  order  that  he 
may  convey  to  the  sensorium  within  a  pleasing  indistinctness  of 
idea  respecting  the  exact  limits  of  skin  and  hair.  He  is  very 
clean  and  neat ;  and,  in  warm  weather,  is  proud  of  opening  his 
waistcoat  half-way  down,  and  letting  so  much  of  his  frill  be 
seen,  in  order  to  show  his  hardiness  as  well  as  taste.  His  watch 
and  shirt-buttons  are  of  the  best;  and  he  does  not  care  if  he  has 
two  rings  on  a  finger.  If  his  watch  ever  failed  him  at  the  club 
or  coftee-house,  he  would  take  a  walk  every  day  to  the  nearest 
clock  of  good  character,  purely  to  keep  it  right.  He  has  a  cane 
at  home,  but  seldom  uses  it,  on  finding  it  out  of  fashion  with  his 
elderly  juniors.  He  has  a  small  cocked  hat  for  gala  days,  which 
he  lifts  higher  from  his  head  than  the  round  one,  when  bowed 
to.  In  his  pockets  are  two  handkerchiefs  (one  for  the  neck  at 
night-time),  his  spectacles  and  his  pocket-book-  The  pocket- 
book,  among  other  things,  contains  a  receipt  for  a  cough,  and 
some  verses  cut  out  of  an  odd  sheet  of  an  old  magazine,  on  the 
lovely  Duchess  of  A.,  beginning — 

When  beauteous  Mira  walks  the  plain. 


CHAP.  XXV.]  THE  OLD  GENTLEMAN.  139 

He  intends  this  for  a  common-place  book  which  he  keeps,  con- 
sisting of  passages  in  verse  and  prose,  cut  out  of  newspapers 
and  magazines,  and  pasted  in  columns ;  some  of  them  rather 
gay  .  His  principal  other  books  are,  Shakspeare's  Plays  and 
Milton's  Paradise  Lost;  the  Spectator,  the  History  of  England, 
the  Works  of  Lady  M.  W.  Montague,  Pope  and  Churchill; 
Middleton's  Geography  ;  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  ;  Sir  John 
Sinclair  on  Longevity  ;  several  plays  with  portraits  in  charac- 
ter :  Account  of  Elizabeth  Canning,  Memoirs  of  George  Ann 
Bellamy,  Poetical  Amusements  at  Bath-Easton,  Blair's  Works, 
Elegant  Extracts ;  Junius,  as  originally  published  ;  a  few 
pamphlets  on  the  American  War  and  Lord  George  Gordon,  &c., 
and  one  on  the  French  Revolution.  In  his  sitting-rooms  are 
some  engravings  from  Hogarth  and  Sir  Joshua ;  an  engraved 
portrait  of  the  Marquis  of  Granby  ;  ditto  M.  le  Comte  de  Grass<^ 
surrendering  to  Admiral  Rodney;  a  humorous  piece  after 
Penny  ;  and  a  portrait  of  himself,  painted  by  Sir  Joshua.  His 
wife's  portrait  is  in  his  chamber,  looking  upon  his  bed.  She  is 
a  little  girl,  stepping  forward  with  a  smile,  and  a  pointed  toe,  as 
if  going  to  dance.     He  lost  her  when  she  was  sixty. 

The  Old  Gentleman  is  an  early  riser,  because  he  intends  to 
live  at  least  twenty  years  longer.  He  continues  to  take  tea  for 
breakfast,  in  spite  of  what  is  said  against  its  nervous  effects; 
having  been  satisfied  on  that  point  some  years  ago  by  Dr.  John- 
son's criticism  on  Hanway,  and  a  great  liking  for  tea  previously. 
His  china  cups  and  saucers  have  been  broken  since  his  wife's 
death,  all  but  one,  which  is  religiously  kept  for  his  use.  He 
passes  his  morning  in  walking  or  riding,  looking  in  at  auctions, 
looking  after  his  India  bonds  or  some  such  money  securities, 
furthering  some  subscription  set  on  foot  by  his  excellent  friend 
Sir  John,  or  cheapening  a  new  old  print  for  his  portfolio.  He 
also  hears  of  the  newspapers ;  not  caring  to  see  them  till  after 
dinner  at  the  coffee-house.  He  may  also  cheapen  a  fish  or  so ; 
the  fishmonger  soliciting  his  doubtful  eye  as  he  passes,  with  a 
profound  bow  of  recognition.     He  eats  a  pear  before  dinner. 

His  dinner  at  the  coffee-house  is  served  up  to  him  at  the 
accustomed  hour,  in  the  old  accustomed  way,  and  by  the  accus< 
tomed  waiter.       If  William  did  lot  bring  it,  the  fish  would  b< 

13 


i*0  THE  INDICATOR  [chap,  xxv 

sure  to  be  stale,  and  the  flesh  new.  He  eats  no  tart ;  or  if  he 
ventures  on  a  little,  takes  cheese  with  it.  You  might  as  soon 
attempt  to  persuade  him  out  of  his  senses,  as  that  cheese  is  not 
good  for  digestion.  He  takes  port ;  and  if  he  has  drunk  more 
than  usual,  and  in  a  more  private  place,  may  be  induced  by- 
some  respectful  inquiries  respecting  the  old  style  of  music,  to 
sing  a  song  composed  by  Mr.  Oswald  or  Mr.  Lampe,  such  as — 

Chloe,  by  that  borrowed  kiss, 
or 

Come,  gentle  god  of  soft  repose, 

or  his  wife's  favorite  ballad,  beginning — 

At  Upton  on  the  hill, 
There  lived  a  happy  pair. 

Of  course,  no  such  exploit  can  take  place  in  the  coffee-room ; 
but  he  will  canvass  the  theory  of  that  matter  there  with  you,  or 
discuss  the  weather,  or  the  markets,  or  the  theatres,  or  the  merits 
of  "  my  lord  North,"  or  "  my  lord  Rockingham  ;"  for  he  rarely 
says  simply,  lord ;  it  is  generally  "  my  lord,"  trippingly  and 
genteelly  off  the  tongue.  If  alone  after  dinner,  his  great  delight 
is  the  newspaper;  which  he  prepares  to  read  by  wiping  his 
spectacles,  carefully  adjustmg  them  on  his  eyes,  and  drawing 
the  candle  close  to  him,  so  as  to  stand  sideways  betwixt  his  ocu- 
lar aim  and  the  small  type.  He  then  holds  the  paper  at  arm's 
length,  and  dropping  his  eyelids  half  down  and  his  mouth  half 
open,  takes  cognizance  of  the  day's  information.  If  he  leaves 
off,  it  is  only  when  the  door  is  opened  by  a  new-comer,  or  when 
he  suspects  somebody  is  over-anxious  to  get  the  paper  out  of  his 
hand.  On  these  occasions  he  gives  an  important  hem!  or  so; 
and  resumes. 

In  the  evening,  our  Old  Gentleman  is  fond  of  going  to  the 
theatre,  or  of  having  a  game  of  cards.  If  he  enjoys  the  latter 
at  his  own  house  or  lodgings,  he  likes  to  play  with  some  friends 
whom  he  has  known  for  many  years;  but  an  elderly  stranger 
may  be  introduced,  if  quiet  and  scientific;  and  the  privilege  is 


CHAF    XXV.]  THE  OLD  GENTLEMAN  141 

extended  to  younger  men  of  letters ;  wh: ,  if  ill  players,  are 
good  losers.  Not  that  he  is  a  miser,  but  to  win  money  at  cards 
is  like  proving  his  victory  by  getting  the  baggage  ;  and  to  win 
of  a  younger  man  is  a  substitute  for  his  not  being  able  to  beat 
him  at  rackets.  He  breaks  up  early,  whether  at  home  or 
abroad. 

At  the  theatre,  he  likes  a  front  row  in  the  pit.  He  comes 
early,  if  he  can  do  so  without  getting  into  a  squeeze,  and  sits 
patiently  waiting  for  the  drawing  up  of  the  curtain,  with  his 
hands  placidly  lying  one  over  the  other  on  the  top  of  his  stick. 
He  generously  admires  some  of  the  best  performers,  but  thinks 
them  far  inferior  to  Garrick,  Woodward,  and  Clive.  During 
splendid  scenes,  he  is  anxious  that  the  little  boy  should  see. 

He  has  been  induced  to  look  in  at  Vauxhall  again,  but  likes  it 
still  less  than  he  did  years  back,  and  cannot  bear  it  in  compari- 
son with  Ranelagh.  He  thinks  everything  looks  poor,  flaring, 
and  jaded.  *'  Ah  !"  says  he,  with  a  sort  of  triumphant  sigh, 
*'  Ranelagh  was  a  noble  place  !  Such  taste,  such  elegance,  such 
beauty !  There  was  the  Duchess  of  A.,  the  finest  woman  in 
England,  sir  ;  and  Mrs.  L.,  a  mighty  fine  creature  ;  and  Lady 
Susan  what's  her  name,  that  had  that  unfortunate  affair  with  Sir 
Charles.     Sir,  they  came  swimming  by  you  like  the  swans." 

The  Old  Gentleman  is  very  particular  in  having  his  slippers 
ready  for  him  at  the  fire,  when  he  comes  home.  He  is  also 
extremely  choice  in  his  snuff",  and  delights  to  get  a  fresh  box-full 
in  Tavistock-street,  in  his  way  to  the  theatre.  His  box  is  a 
curiosity  from  India.  He  calls  favorite  young  ladies  by  their 
Christian  names,  however  slightly  acquainted  with  them ;  and 
has  a  privilege  of  saluting  all  brides,  mothers,  and  indeed  every 
species  of  lady,  on  the  least  holiday  occasion.  If  the  husband 
for  instance  has  met  with  a  piece  of  luck,  he  instantly  moves 
forward,  and  gravely  kisses  the  wife  on  the  cheek.  The  wife 
then  says,  "  My  niece,  sir,  from  the  country;"  and  he  kisses 
the  niece.  The  niece,  seeing  her  cousin  biting  her  lips  at  the 
joke,  says,  "  My  cousin  Harriet,  sir  ;"  and  he  kisses  the  cousin. 
He  "never  recollects  such  weather,"  except  during  the  "  Great 
Frost,"  or  when  he  rode  down  with  "  Jack  Skrimshire  to  New- 
market."      He   grows  young  again  in   his  little  grand-children, 


142  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  xxvi. 

cspfcjially  the  one  which  he  thinks  most  like  himself;  which  is 
the  handsomest.  Yet  he  likes  best  perhaps  the  one  most  resem- 
bling his  wife ;  and  will  sit  with  him  on  his  lap,  holding  his 
hand  in  silence,  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  together.  He  plays 
most  tricks  with  the  former,  and  makes  him  sneeze.  He  asks 
little  boys  in  general  who  was  the  father  of  Zebedee's  children 
If  his  grandsons  are  at  school,  he  often  goes  to  see  them  ;  and 
makes  them  blush  by  telling  the  master  or  the  upper-scholars, 
that  they  are  fine  boys,  and  of  a  precocious  genius.  He  is 
much  struck  when  an  old  acquaintance  dies,  but  adds  that  he 
lived  too  fast ;  and  that  poor  Bob  was  a  sad  dog  in  his  youth  ; 
•'  a  very  sad  dog,  sir  ;  mightily  set  upon  a  short  life  and  a  merry 
one." 

When  he  gets  very  old  indeed,  he  will  sit  for  whole  evenings, 
and  say  little  or  nothing ;  but  informs  you,  that  th(!re  is  Mrs. 
Jones  (the  housekeeper) — "  She'll  talk." 


OHAP.  xxvn.]  DOLPHINS.  in 


CHAPTER  XXVIl. 

Dolphins. 

Our  old  book-friend,  the  Dolphin,  used  to  be  confounded  with 
the  porpus  ;  but  modern  writers  seem  to  concur  in  making  a  dis- 
tinction between  them.  We  remember  being  much  mortified  at 
this  separation  ;  for  having,  in  our  childhood,  been  shown  some- 
thing dimly  rolling  in  the  sea,  while  standing  on  the  coast  at 
twilight,  and  told  with  much  whispering  solemnity  that  it  was  a 
porpus,  we  had  afterwards  learnt  to  identify  it  with  the  Dolphin, 
and  thought  we  had  seen  the  romantic  fish  on  whom  Arion  rode 
playing  his  harp. 

Spenser  introduces  Arion  most  beautifully,  in  all  his  lyrical 
pomp,  in  the  marriage  of  the  Thames  and  Medway.  He  goes 
before  the  bride,  smoothing  onwards  with  the  sound  of  his  harp, 
like  the  very  progress  of  the  water. 

Then  there  was  heard  a  most  celestiall  sound 
Of  dainty  musicke,  which  did  next  ensue 
Before  the  Spouse.      That  was  Arion  crowned  : 
Who,  playing  on  his  harp,  unto  him  drew 
The  eares  and  hearts  of  all  that  goodly  crew ; 
That  even  yet  the  Dolphin,  which  him  bore 
Through  the  ^gean  seas  from  pirates'  view, 
Stood  still  by  him  astonished  at  his  lore; 
And  all  the  raging  seas  for  joy  forgot  to  roar. 

So  went  he,  playing  on  the  watery  plain. 

Perhaps  in  no  one  particular  thing  or  image,  have  some  great 

poets  shown   the  different  characters  of  their  genius  more  than 

in  the  use  of  the  Dolphin.      Spenser,  who  of  all   his  tribe   lived 

in  a  poetical  world,  and  saw  things  as  clearly  there  as  in  a  real 

one,  has  never  shown  this  nicety  of  realization  more  than  in  the 

13* 


144  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxvn 

following  passage.  He  speaks  of  his  Dolphins  with  as  familiar 
a  detail,  as  if  they  were  horses  waiting  at  a  door  with  an 
equipage. 

A  team  of  Dolphins  ranged  in  array 
Drew  the  smooth  charett  of  sad  Cymoent. 
They  were  all  taught  by  Triton  to  obey 
To  the  long  reins  of  her  commandement : 
As  swift  as  swallows  on  the  waves  they  went, 
That  their  broad  flaggy  finnes  no  foam  did  rears, 
Ne  bubbling  roundell  they  behind  them  sent. 
The  rest  of  other  fishes  drawen  were, 
Which  with  their  finny  oares  the  swelling  sea  did  sheare. 

Soon  as  they  been  arrived  upon  the  brim 

Of  the  Rich  Strand,  their  charets  they  forlore ; 

And  let  their  teamed  fishes  softly  swim 

Along  the  margent  of  the  foamy  shore. 

Lest  they  their  finnes  should  bruise,  and  surbeat  sore 

Their  tender  feete  upon  the  stony  ground 

There  are  a  couple  of  Dolphins  like  these,  in  Raphael's  Galatea, 
Dante,  with  his  tendency  to  see  things  in  a  dreary  point  of  view, 
has  given  an  illustration  of  the  agonies  of  some  of  the  damned 
in  his  Inferno,  at  once  new,  fine,  and  horrible.  It  is  in  the  22d 
book,  "  Come  i  delfini,''  &c.  He  says  that  some  wretches, 
swimming  in  one  of  the  gulfs  of  hell,  shot  out  their  backs  occa- 
sionally, like  Dolphins,  above  the  pitchy  liquid,  in  order  to  snatch 
a  respite  from  torment ;  but  darted  them  back  again  like  light- 
ning. The  devils  would  prong  them  as  they  rose.  Strange 
fancies  these  for  maintaining  the  character  of  religion ! 

Hear  Shakspeare,  always  the  noble  and  the  good-natured 
We  forget  of  what  great  character  he  is  speaking  ;  but  never 
was  an  image  that  more  singularly  yet  completely  united  supe- 
riority and  playfulness. 

His  delights 
Were  dolphin-like  ;  and  showed  .hemselves  above 
The  element  he  lived  in. 


CHAP  xxviii.]     RONALD  OF  THE  PERFECT  HAND.  4ft 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Ronald  of  the  Perfect  Hand. 

[The  following  tale  is  founded  on  a  Scottish  tradition      7  was  intended  to 
"le  written  in  verse;  which  will  account  for  its  present  a^  pearance.] 

The  stern  old  shepherd  of  the  air, 

The  spirit  of  the  whistling  hair, 

The  wind,  has  risen  drearily 

In  the  Northern  evening  sea. 

And  is  piping  long  and  loud 

To  many  a  heavy  upcoming  cloud,  ^ 

Upcoming  heavy  in  many  a  row, 

Like  the  unwieldy  droves  below 

Of  seals  and  horses  of  the  sea. 

That  gather  up  as  drearily, 

And  watch  with  solemn-visaged  eyes 

Those  mightier  movers  in  the  skies. 

'Tis  evening  quick ; — 'tis  night : — the  ra;»i 
Is  sowing  wide  the  fruitless  main, 
Thick,  thick ; — no  sight  remains  the  whiitf 
From  the  farthest  Orkney  isle, 
No  sight  to  sea-horse,  or  to  seer, 
But  of  a  little  pallid  sail, 
•  That  seems  as  if  'twould  struggle  near, 

And  then  as  if  its  pinion  pale 
Gave  up  the  battle  to  the  gale. 
Four  chiefs  there  are  of  special  note, 
Laboring  in  that  earnest  boat ; 
Four  Orkney  chiefs,  that  yesterday 
Coming  in  their  pride  away 
From  there  smote  Norwegian  king. 
Led  their  war-boats  triumphing 
Straight  along  the  golden  line 
Made  by  m/irning's  eye  divine. 
Stately  came  they,  one  by  one,  .y, 

Every  sail  beneath  the  sun,  ^ 

As  if  he  their  admiral  were 


4«  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxtio 

Looking  down  from  the  lofty  air. 

Stately,  stately  through  the  gold — 

But  before  that  day  was  done 

Lo,  his  eye  grew  vexed  and  cold ; 

And  every  boat,  except  that  one, 

A  tempest  trampled  in  its  roar ; 

And  every  man,  except  those  four, 

AVas  drenched,  and  driving  far  from  home, 

Dead  and  swift,  through  the  Northern  foam. 

Four  are  they,  who  wearily 
Have  drank  of  toil  two  days  at  sea ; 
Duth  Maruno,  steady  and  dark, 
Cormar,  Soul  of  the  Winged  Bark ; 
And  bright  Clan  Alpin,  who  could  leap 
Like  a  torrent  from  steep  to  steep  ; 
And  he,  the  greatest  of  that  great  band, 
Ronald  of  the  Perfect  Hand. 

Dumbly  strain  they  for  the  shore, 
Foot  to  board,  and  grasp  on  oar. 
The  billows,  panting  in  the  wind, 
Seem  instinct  with  ghastly  mind, 
And  climb  like  crowding  savages 
At  the  boat  that  dares  their  seas. 
iJumbly  strain  they  through  and  through. 
Dumbly,  and  half  blindly  too. 
Drenched,  and  buffeted,  and  bending 
Up  and  down  without  an  ending, 
Like  ghostly  things  that  could  not  cease 
To  row  among  those  savages. 

Ronald  of  the  Perfect  Hand 
Has  rowed  the  most  of  all  that  band  ; 
And  now  he's  resting  for  a  space 
At  the  helm,  and  turns  his  face 
Round  and  round  on  every  side 
To  see  what  cannot  be  descried, 
Shore,  nor  sky,  nor  light,  nor  even 
Hope,  whose  feet  are  last  in  heaven. 
Ronald  thought  him  of  the  roar 
Of  the  fight  the  day  before. 
And  of  the  young  Norwegian  prince 
Whom  in  all  the  woi  ryings 
And  hot  vexations  of  the  fray, 
He  had  sent  with  life  away. 


CHAP.  XXVIII.]     RONALD  OF  THE  PERFECT  HAND  Ul 

Because  he  told  him  of  a  bride 

That  if  she  lost  him,  would  have  died ; 

And  Ronald  then,  in  bitter  case, 

Thought  of  his  own  sweet  lady's  face. 

Which  upon  this  very  night 

Should  have  blushed  with  bridal  light, 

And  of  her  downward  eyelids  meek, 

And  of  her  voice,  just  heard  to  speak. 

As  at  the  altar,  hand  in  hand, 

On  ceasing  of  the  organ  grand, 

'Twould  have  bound  her  for  weal  or  wo. 

With  delicious  answers  low  : 

And  more  he  thought  of,  grave  and  sweet, 

That  made  the  thin  tears  start,  and  meet 

The  wetting  of  the  insolent  wave ; 

And  Ronald,  who  though  all  so  brave. 

Had  often  that  hard  day  before 

Wished  himself  well  housed  on  shore. 

Felt  a  sharp  impatient  start 

Of  home-sick  wilfulness  at  heart. 

And  steering  with  still  firmer  hand. 

As  if  the  boat  could  feel  command, 

Thrill'd  with  a  fierce  and  forward  motion, 

As  though  'twould  shoot  it  through  the  ocean. 

"Some  spirit,"  exclaimed  Duth  Maruno,  "must  pursue  us, 
and  stubbornly  urge  the  boat  out  of  its  way,  or  we  mu.st  have 
arrived  by  this  time  at  Inistore."*  Ronald  took  him  at  his 
word,  and  turning  hastily  round,  thought  he  saw  an  armed  figure 
behind  the  stern.  His  anger  rose  with  his  despair;  and  with  all 
his  strength  he  dashed  his  arm  at  the  moveless  and  airy  shape. 
At  that  instant  a  fierce  blast  of  the  wind  half  turned  the  boat 
round.  The  chieftains  called  out  to  Ronaldo  to  set  his  whole 
heart  at  the  rudder  ;  but  the  wind  beat  back  their  voices,  like 
young  birds  into  the  nest,  and  no  answer  followed  it.  The  boat 
seemed  less  and  less  manageable,  and  at  last  to  be  totally  left  to 
themselves.  In  the  intervals  of  the  wind  they  again  called  out 
.0  Ronald,  but  still  received  no  answer.  One  of  them  crc{)t 
forward,  and  felt  for  him  through  the  blinding  wet  and  darkness. 
His  place  was  void.     "  It  was  a  ghost,"  said  they,  "  which  came 

*  The  old  name  for  the  Orkneys. 


149  THE  INDICATOR  [chap,  xxviil 

to  fetch  him  to  the  spirits  of  his  fathers.  Ronak  of  the  Perfect 
Hand  is  gone,  and  we  shall  follow  him  as  we  did  in  the  fight. 
Hark  !  the  wind  is  louder  and  louder :  it  is  louder  and  many- 
voiced.  Is  it  his  voice  which  has  roused  up  the  others?  Is  he 
calling  upon  us,  as  he  did  in  the  battle,  when  his  fjl lowers 
shouted  after  his  call  ?" 

It  was  the  rocks  of  an  isle  beyond  Inistore,  which  made  that 
multitudinous  roaring  of  the  wind.  The  chieftains  found  that 
they  were  not  destined  to  perish  in  the  mid-ocean  ;  but  it  was 
fortunate  for  them  that  the  wind  did  not  set  in  directly  upon  the 
island,  or  they  would  have  been  dashed  to  pieces  upon  the 
rocks.  With  great  difficulty  they  stemmed  their  way  obliquely ; 
and  at  length  were  thrown  violently  to  shore,  bruised,  wounded, 
and  half  inanimate.  They  I'emained  on  this  desolate  island  two 
days,  during  the  first  of  which  the  storm  subsided.  On  the 
third,  they  were  taken  away  by  a  boat  of  seal-hunters. 

The  chiefs,  on  their  arrival  at  home,  related  how  Ronald  of 
the  Perfect  Hand  had  been  summoned  away  by  a  loud-voiced 
spirit,  and  disappeared.  Great  was  the  mourning  in  Inistore  for 
the  Perfect  Hand  ;  for  the  Hand  that  with  equal  skill  could 
throw  the  javelin  and  traverse  the  harp  ;  could  build  the  sudden 
hut  of  the  hunter ;  and  bind  up  the  glad  locks  of  the  maiden  tired 
in  the  dance.  Therefore  was  he  called  the  Perfect  Hand  ;  and 
therefore  with  great  mourning  was  he  mourned  :  yet  with  none 
half  as  great  as  by  his  love,  his  betrothed  bride  Moilena ;  by 
her  of  tlie  Beautiful  Voice  ;  who  had  latterly  begun  to  be  called 
the  Perfect  Voice,  because  she  was  to  be  matched  with  him  of  the 
Perfect  Hand.  Perfect  Hand  and  Perfect  Voice  were  they 
called  ;  but  the  Hand  was  now  gone,  and  the  Voice  sang  brokenly 
for  tears. 

A  dreary  winter  was  it  though  a  victorious,  to  the  people  of 
Inistore.  Their  swords  had  conquered  in  Lochlin  ;  but  most  of 
the  hands  that  wielded  them  had  never  come  back.  Their  warm 
pressure  was  felt  no  more.  The  last  which  they  had  given 
their  friends  was  now  to  serve  them  all  their  livts.  "  Never, 
with  all  my  yearning,"  said  Moilena,  "  shall  I  look  upon  his 
again,  as  I  have  looked  upon  it  a  hundred  times,  when  nobody 


CHAP.  XXVIII.]     RONALD  OF  THE  PERFECT  HAND.  149 

suspected.  Nfiver."  And  she  turned  from  the  sight  of  the  des- 
tructive ocean,  which  seemed  as  interminable  as  her  thoughts. 

But  winter  had  now  passed  away.  The  tears  of  the  sky  at 
least  were  dried  up.  The  sun  looked  out  kindly  again  ;  and  the 
spring  had  scarcely  re-appeared,  when  Inistore  had  a  proud  and 
gladder  day,  from  the  arrival  of  the  young  prince  of  Lochlin 
with  his  bride.  It  was  a  bitter  one  to  Moilena,  for  the  prince 
came  to  thank  Ronald  for  sparing  his  life  in  the  war,  and  had 
brought  his  lady  to  thank  him  too.  They  thanked  Moilena  in- 
stead ;  and,  proud  in  the  midst  of  her  unhappiness,  of  being  the 
representative  of  the  Perfect  Hand,  she  lavished  hundreds,  of 
smiles  upon  them  from  her  pale  face.  But  she  wept  in  secret. 
She  could  not  bear  this  new  addition  to  the  store  of  noble  and 
kind  memories  respecting  her  Ronald.  He  had  spared  the 
bridegroom  for  his  bride.  He  had  hoped  to  come  back  to  his 
own.  She  looked  over  to  the  north  ;  and  thought  that  her  home 
was  as  much  there  as  in  Inistore. 

Meantime,  Ronald  was  not  drowned.  A  Scandinavian  boat, 
bound  for  an  island  called  the  Island  of  the  Circle,  had  picked 
him  up.  The  crew,  which  consisted  chiefly  of  priests,  were 
going  thither  to  propitiate  the  deities,  on  account  of  the  late 
defeat  of  their  countrymen.  They  recognized  the  victorious 
chieftain,  who  on  coming  to  his  senses  freely  confessed  who  he 
was.  Instantly  they  raised  a  chorus,  which  rose  sternly  through 
the  tempest.  "  We  carry,"  said  they,  "  an  acceptable  present 
to  the  gods.  Odin,  stay  thy  hand  from  the  slaughter  of  the  ob- 
scure. Thor,  put  down  the  mallet  with  which  thou  beatest,  like 
red  hail,  on  the  skulls  of  thine  enemies.  Ye  other  feasters  in 
Valhalla,  set  down  the  skulls  full  of  mead,  and  pledge  a  health 
out  of  a  new  and  noble  one  to  the  King  of  Gods  and  Men,  that 
the  twilight  of  heaven  may  come  late.  We  bring  an  acceptable 
present :  we  bring  Ronald  of  the  Perfect  Hand."  Thus  they 
sang  in  the  boat,  laboring  all  the  while  with  the  winds  and  the 
wave^,  but  surer  now  than  ever  of  reaching  the  shore.  And 
they  did  so  by  the  first  light  of  the  morning.  When  they  came 
to  the  circle  of  sacred  stones,  from  which  the  island  look  its 
name,  they  placed  their  late  conqueror  by  the  largest,  and  kin- 
dled a  fire  in  the  middle.     The  warm  smoke  rose  thickly  against 


150  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  xxvm. 

the  cold  white  morning.  Let  me  be  offered  up  to  your  gods," 
said  Ronald,  "  like  a  man,  by  the  sword  ;  and  not  like  food,  by 
the  fire."  "  We  know  all,"  answered  the  priests:  "be  thou  silent." 
"  Treat  not  him,"  said  Ronald,  "  who  spared  your  prince,  unwor- 
thily. If  he  must  be  sacrificed,  let  him  die  as  your  prince  would 
have  died  by  this  hand."  Still  they  answered  nothing  but  "  We 
know  all :  be  thou  silent."  Ronald  could  not  help  witnessing 
these  preparations  for  a  new  and  unexpected  death  with  an  emo- 
tion of  terror ;  but  disdain  and  despair  were  uppermost.  Once, 
and  but  once,  his  cheek  turned  deadly  pale  in  thinking  of  Moile- 
na.  He  shifted  his  posture  resolutely,  and  thought  of  the  spirits 
of  the  dead  whom  he  was  about  to  join.  The  priests  then  encir- 
cled the  fire  and  the  stone  at  whrch  he  stood,  with  another  devot- 
ing song  ;  and  Ronald  looked  earnestly  at  the  ruddy  flames, 
which  gave  to  his  body,  as  in  mockery,  a  kindly  warmth.  The 
priests,  however,  did  not  lay  hands  on  him.  They  respected  the 
sparer  of  their  prince  so  far  as  not  to  touch  him  themselves ; 
they  left  him  to  be  despatched  by  the  supernatural  beings,  whom 
they  confidently  expected  to  come  down  for  that  purpose  as  soon 
as  they  had  retired. 

Ronald,  whose  faith  was  of  another  description,  saw  their 
departure  with  joy  ;  but  it  was  damped  the  next  minute.  What 
was  he  to  do  in  winter-time  on  an  island,  inhabited  only  by  the 
fowls  and  other  creatures  of  the  northern  sea,  and  never  touch- 
ed at  but  for  a  purpose  hostile  to  his  hopes  ?  For  he  now  recol- 
lected, that  this  was  the  island  he  had  so  often  heard  of,  as  the 
chief  seat  of  the  Scandinavian  religion  ;  whose  traditions  had 
so  influenced  countries  of  a  different  faith,  that  it  was  believed 
in  Scotland  as  well  as  the  continent,  that  no  human  being  could 
live  there  many  hours.  Spirits,  it  was  thought,  appeared  in  ter- 
rible superhuman  shapes,  like  the  bloody  idols  which  the  priests 
worshipped,  and  carried  the  stranger  off. 

The  warrior  of  Inistore  had  soon  too  much  reason  to  know  the 
extent  of  this  belief.  He  was  not  without  fear  himself,  but  dis- 
dained to  yield  to  any  circumstances  without  a  struggle.  He 
refreshed  himself  with  some  snow-water;  and  after  climbing 
the  highest  part  of  the  island  to  look  for  a  boat  in  vain  (nothing 
was  to  be  seen  but  the  waves  tumbling  on  all  sides  after  the 


CHAP,  xxvui.]     RONALD  OF  THE  PERFECT  HAND.  151 

storm),  he  set  about  preparing  a  habitation.  He  saw  at  a  little 
distance,  on  a  slope,  the  mouth  of  a  rocky  cave.  This  he  des- 
tined for  his  shelter  at  night ;  and  looking  round  for  a  defence 
for  the  door,  as  he  knew  not  whether  bears  might  not  be  among 
the  inhabitants,  he  cast  his  eyes  among  the  thinnest  of  the  stones 
which  stood  upright  about  the  fire.  The  heart  of  the  warrior, 
though  of  a  ditferent  faith,  misgave  him  as  he  thought  of  appro- 
priating this  mystical  stone,  carved  full  of  strange  figures  ;  but 
half  in  courage,  and  half  in  the  despair  of  fear,  he  suddenly 
twisted  it  from  its  place.  No  one  appeared.  The  fire  altered 
not.  The  noise  of  the  fowl  and  other  creatures  was  no  louder 
on  the  shore.  Ronald  smiled  at  his  fears,  and  knew  the  undi- 
minished vigor  of  the  Perfect  Hand. 

He  found  the  cavern  already  fitted  for  shelter ;  doubtless  by 
the  Scandinavian  priests.  He  had  bitter  reason  to  know  how 
well  it  sheltered  him  ;  for  day  after  day  he  hoped  in  vain  that 
some  boat  from  Inistore  would  venture  upon  the  island.  He  be- 
held sails  at  a  distance,  but  they  never  came.  He  piled  stone 
upon  stone,  joined  old  pieces  of  boats  together,  and  made  flags 
of  the  sea-weed  ;  but  all  in  vain.  The  vessels,  he  thought, 
came  nearer,  but  none  so  near  as  to  be  of  use  ;  and  a  new  and 
sickly  kind  of  impatience  cut  across  the  stout  heart  of  Ronald, 
and  set  it  beating.  He  knew  not  whether  it  was  with  the  cold 
or  with  misery,  but  his  frame  would  shake  for  an  hour  together, 
when  he  lay  down  on  his  dried  weeds  and  feathers  to  rest.  He 
remembered  the  happy  sleeps  that  used  to  follow  upon  toil ;  and 
he  looked  with  double  activity  for  the  eggs  and  shell-fish  on 
which  he  sustained  himself,  and  smote  double  the  number  of 
seals,  half  in  the  very  exercise  of  his  anger:  and  then  he  would 
fall  dead  asleep  with  fatigue. 

In  this  way  he  bore  up  against  the  violences  of  the  winter  sea- 
son, which  had  now  passed.  The  sun  looked  out  with  a  melan- 
choly smile  upon  the  moss  and  the  poor  grass,  chequered  here 
and  there  with  flowers  almost  as  poor.  There  was  the  butter- 
cup, struggling  from  a  dirty  white  into  a  yellow ;  and  a  faint- 
colored  poppy,  neither  the  good  nor  the  ill  of  which  was  then 
known  ;  and  here  and  there  by  the  thorny  underwood  a  shrink, 
ing  violet.     The  lark  alone  seemed  cheerful,  and   startled  the 

14 


]52  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  xxvm. 

ear  of  the  desolate  chieftain  with  its  climbing  triumph  in  the  air. 
Ronald  looked  up.  His  fancy  had  been  made  wild  and  wilful 
by  strange  and  sickened  blood  ;  and  he  thought  impatiently, 
that  if  he  were  up  there  like  the  lark,  he  might  see  his  friends 
and  his  love  in  Inistore. 

Beino-  naturally,  however,  of  a  gentle  as  well  as  courageous 
disposition,  the  Perfect  Hand  found  the  advantage  as  well  as  the 
necessity  of  turning  his  violent  impulses  into  noble  matter  for 
patience.  He  had  heard  of  the  dreadful  bodily  sufferings  which 
the  Scandinavian  heroes  underwent  from  their  enemies  with  tri- 
umphant songs.  He  knew  that  no  such  sufferings  which  were 
fugitive,  could  equal  the  agonies  of  a  daily  martyrdom  of  mind  ; 
and  he  cultivated  a  certain  humane  pride  of  patience,  in  order 
to  bear  them. 

His  only  hope  of  being  delivei'ed  from  the  island  now  depend- 
ed on  the  Scandinavian  priests  ;  but  it  was  a  moot  point  whether 
they  would  respect  him  for  surviving,  or  kill  him  on  that  very 
account,  out  of  a  mixture  of  personal  and  superstitious  resent- 
ment. He  thought  his  death  the  more  likely  ;  but  this,  at  least, 
was  a  termination  to  the  dreary  prospect  of  a  solitude  for  life  ; 
and  partly  out  of  that  hope,  and  partly  from  a  courageous  pa- 
tience, he  cultivated  as  many  pleasant  thoughts  and  objects 
about  him  as  he  could.  He  adorned  his  cavern  with  shells  and 
feathers ;  he  made  himself  a  cap  and  cloak  of  the  latter,  and 
boots  and  a  vest  of  seal-skin,  girding  it  about  with  the  glossy 
sea-weed  ;  he  cleared  away  a  circle  before  the  cavern,  planted 
it  with  the  best  grass,  and  heaped  about  it  the  mossiest  stones  : 
he  strung  som  ■:  bones  of  a  fish  with  sinews,  and  fitting  a  shell 
beneath  it,  the  Perfect  Hand  drew  forth  the  first  gentle  music 
that  had  been  heard  in  that  wild  island.  He  touched  it  one  day 
in  the  midst  of  a  flock  of  seals,  who  were  basking  in  the  sun  ; 
they  turned  their  heads  towards  the  .sound  ;  he  thought  he  saw 
in  their  mild  faces  a  human  expression  ;  and  from  that  day  forth 
no  seal  was  ever  slain  oy  the  Perfect  Hand.  He  spared  even 
the  huge  and  cloudy  visagod-vvalrusses,  in  whoso  societies  he 
beheld  a  dull  resemblance  to  the  gentler  affections  ;  and  his  new 
intimacy  with  these  possessors  of  the  place  was  completed  by 
uiie  of  the   former  animals,  who  having  b^^i   rescued  by  him 


CHAP   XXVIII.]     RONALD  OF  THE  PERFECT  HAND.  153 

from  a  contest  with  a  larger  one,  followed  him  about,  as  well  as 
its  half-formed  and  dragging  legs  would  allow,  with  the  officious 
attachment  of  a  dog. 

But  the  summer  was  gone,  and  no  one  had  appeared.  The 
new  thoughts  and  deeper  insight  into  things,  which  solitude  and 
s/^-Jirowful  necessity  had  produced,  together  with  a  diminution  of 
his  activity,  had  not  tended  to  strengthen  him  against  the  ap- 
proach of  winter:  and  autumn  came  upon  him  like  the  melan- 
choly twilight  of  the  year.  He  had  now  no  hope  of  seeing  even 
the  finishers  of  his  existence  before  the  spring.  The  rising  winds 
among  the  rocks,  and  the  noise  of  the  whales  blowing  up  their 
spouts  of  water,  till  the  caverns  thundered  >vith  their  echoes, 
seemed  to  be  like  heralds  of  the  stern  season  which  was  to  close 
him  in  against  approach.  He  had  tried  one  day  to  move  the 
stone  at  the  mouth  of  his  habitation  a  little  furtlier  in,  and  found 
his  strength  fail  him.  He  laid  himself  half  reclining  on  the 
ground,  full  of  such  melancholy  thoughts  as  half  bewildered 
him.  Things,  by  turns,  appeared  a  fierce  dream,  and  a  fiercer 
reality.  He  was  leaning  and  looking  on  the  ground,  and  idly 
twisting  his  long  hair,  when  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  hand  that  held 
it.  It  was  livid  and  emaciated.  He  opened  and  shut  it,  open- 
ed and  shut  it  again,  turned  it  round,  and  looked  at  its  ribbed 
thinness  and  laid-open  machinery;  many  tlioughts  came  upon 
him,  some  which  he  understood  not,  and  some  which  he  recoo-- 
nized  but  too  well  ;  and  a  turbid  violence  seemed  rising  at  his 
heart,  when  the  seal,  his  companion,  drew  nigh,  and  began  lick- 
ing that  weak  memorial  of  the  Perfect  Hand.  A  shower  of  self- 
pilying  tears  fell  upon  the  seal's  face  and  the  hand  together. 

On  a  sudden  he  heard  a  voice.  It  was  a  deep  and  loud  one, 
and  distinctly  called  out  "  Ronald  !"  He  looked  up,  gasping 
with  wonder.  Three  times  it  called  out,  as  if  with  peremptory 
command,  and  three  times  the  rocks  and  caverns  echoed  the 
word  with"  a  dim  sullenness. 

*  Recollecting  himself,  he  would  have  risen  and  answered  ;  but 
th(!  sudden  change  of  sensations  had  done  what  all  his  sufferings 
had  not  been  able  to  do,  and  he  found  himself  unable  either  t<j 
rise  or  to  speak.  The  voice  called  again  and  again  ;  but  it  was 
now  more   distant,  and  Ronald's  heart  sickened  as  he  heard  it 


151  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxvm 

retreating.  His  strength  seemed  to  fail  him  in  proportion  as  il 
became  necessary.  Suddenly  the  voice  came  back  again.  It 
advances.  Other  voices  are  heard,  all  advancing.  In  a  short 
time,  figures  come  hastily  down  the  slope  by  the  side  of  his  ca- 
vern, looking  over  into  the  area  before  it  as  they  descend.  They 
entei.  They  are  before  him  and  about  him.  Some  of  them,  in 
a  Scandinavian  habit,  prostrate  themselves  at  his  feet,  and  ad- 
dress him  in  an  unknown  language.  But  these  are  sent  away 
by  another,  who  remains  with  none  but  two  youths.  Ronald  has 
risen  a  little,  and  leans  his  back  against  the  rock.  One  of  the 
youths  puts  his  arm  between  his  neck  and  the  rock,  and  half 
kneels  beside  him,  turning  his  face  away  and  weeping.  "  I  am 
no  god,  nor  a  favorite  of  gods,  as  these  people  supposed  me," 
said  Ronald,  looking  up  at  the  chief  who  was  speaking  to  the 
other  youth  :  "  if  thou  wilt  despatch  me  then,  do  so.  I  only  pray 
thee  to  let  the  death  be  fit  for  a  warrior,  such  as  I  once  was." 
The  chief  appeared  agitated.  "Speak  not  ill  of  the  gods,  Ro- 
nald," said  he,  "  although  thou  wert  blindly  brought  up.  A 
warrior  like  thee  must  be  a  favorite  of  heaven.  I  come  to  prove 
it  to  thee.  Dost  thou  not  know  me  ?  I  come  to  give  thee  life  for 
life."  Ronald  looked  more  steadfastly.  It  was  the  Scandina- 
vian  prince  whom  he  had  spared,  because  of  his  bride,  in  battle. 
He  smiled,  and  lifted  up  his  hand  to  him,  which  was  intercept- 
ed and  kissed  by  the  youth  who  held  his  arm  round  his  neck. 
"  Who  are  these  fair  youths?"  said  Ronald,  half  turning  his 
head  to  look  in  his  supporter's  face.  "  This  is  the  bride  I  spoke 
of,"  answered  the  prince,  "  who  insisted  on  sharing  this  voyage 
with  me,  and  puts  on  this  dress  to  be  the  bolder  in  it."  "  And 
who  is  the  other?"  The  other,  with  dried  eyes,  looked  smiling 
into  his,  and  intercepted  the  answer  also.  "  Who,"  said  the 
sweetest  voice  in  the  world,  "  can  it  be,  but  one  ?"  With  a 
quick  and  almost  fierce  tone,  Ronald  cried  out  aloud,  "  I  know 
the  voice  ;"  and  he  would  have  fallen  flat  on  the  earth,  if  they 
had  not  all  three  supported  him. 

It  was  a  mild  return  to  Inistore,  Ronald  gathering  strength  all 
the  way,  at  the  eyes  and  voice  of  Moilena,  and  the  hands  of  all 
three.  Their  discovery  of  him  was  easily  explained.  The 
crews  of  the  vessels,  who  had  been  afraid  to  come  nearer,  had 


CHAP,  xxvni.]     RONALD  OF  THE  PERFECT  HAND.  jr.5 

repeatedly  seen  a  figure  on  the  island  making  signs.  The 
Scandinavian  priests  related  how  they  had  left  Ronald  there  ; 
but  insisted  that  no  human  being  could  live  upon  it,  and  that 
some  god  wished  to  manifest  himself  to  his  faithful  worshippers. 
The  heart  of  Moilena  was  quick  to  guess  the  truth.  The  prince 
proposed  to  accompany  the  priests.  His  bride  and  the  destined 
bride  of  his  savior  went  with  him,  and  returned  as  you  heard ; 
and  from  that  day  forth  many  were  the  songs  in  Inistore,  upon 
the  fortunes  of  the  Perfect  Hand  and  the  kindness  of  the  Perfect 
Voice.     Nor  were  those  forgotten  who  fo:  got  not  others. 


14» 


156  THE  INDICATOR.  Fchap.  xxtx 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

A  Chipter  on  Hats. 

We  know  not  what  will  be  thought  of  our  taste  in  so  important 
a  matter,  but  we  must  confess  we  are  not  fond  of  a  new  hat- 
There  is  a  certain  insolence  about  it :  it  seems  to  value  itself 
upon  its  finished  appearance,  and  to  presume  upon  our  liking  be- 
fore we  are  acquainted  with  it.  'n  the  first  place,  it  comes  home 
more  like  a  marmot  or  some  other  living  creature,  than  a  manu- 
facture. It  is  boxed  up,  and  wrapt  in  silver  paper,  and  brought 
delicately.  It  is  as  sleek  as  a  lap-dog.  Then  we  are  to  take 
it  oiit  as  nicely,  and  people  are  to  wonder  how  we  shall  look  in 
it.  Maria  twitches  one  this  vvay,  and  Sophia  that,  and  Caroline 
that,  and  Catharine  t'other.  We  have  the  difficult  task,  all  the 
while,  of  looking  easy,  till  the  approving  votes  are  pronounced  ; 
our  only  resource  (which  is  also  difficult)  being  to  say  good 
things  to  all  four ;  or  to  clap  the  hat  upon  each  of  their  heads, 
and  see  what  pretty  milk-women  they  make.  At  last  the  ap- 
proving  votes  are  pronounced  ;  and  (provided  it  is  fine)  we  may 
go  forth.  But  how  uneasy  the  sensation  about  the  head ! 
How  unlike  the  old  hat,  to  which  we  had  become  used,  and 
which  must  now  make  way  for  this  fop  of  a  stranger  !  We 
might  do  what  we  liked  with  the  former.  Dust,  rain,  a  gale  of 
wind,  a  fall,  a  squeeze, — nothing  affected  it.  It  was  a  true 
friend,  a  friend  for  all  weathers.  Its  appearance  only  was 
against  it :  in  everything  else  it  was  the  better  for  wear.  But  if 
the  roads  or  the  streets  are  too  dry,  the  new  hat  is  afraid  of  get- 
ting dusty  :  if  there  is  wind,  and  it  is  not  tight,  it  may  be  blown 
off  into  the  dir  :  we  may  have  to  scramble  after  it  through  dust 
or  mud  ;  just  reaching  it  with  our  fingers,  only  to  see  it  blown 
away  again.  And  if  rain  comes  on  !  Oh  ye  gallant  apprenti 
ces,  who   have  issued  forth  on  a  Sunday  morning,  with   Jane  oi 


CHAP    XXIX.]  A  CHAPTER  ON  HATS.  J.')-? 

Susan,  careless  either  of  storms  at  night-fall,  or  toils  and  scold- 
ings next  day  !  Ye,  who  have  received  new  hats  and  boots  bul 
an  hour  before  ye  set  out ;  and  then  issue  forth  triumphantly, 
the  charmer  by  your  side  !  She,  with  arm  in  yours,  and  hand- 
kerchief in  hand,  blushing,  creating  gingerbread,  trips  on  :  ye, 
admiring,  trudge  :  we  ask  ye,  whether  love  itself  has  prevented 
ye  from  feeling  a  certain  fearful  consciousness  of  that  crowning 
glory,  the  new  and  glossy  hat^  when  the  first  drops  of  rain  an- 
nounce the  coming  of  a  shower !  Ah,  hasten,  while  yet  it  is 
of  use  to  haste  ;  ere  yet  the  spotty  horror  fixes  on  the  nap  ! 
Out  with  the  protecting  handkerchief,  which,  tied  round  the  hat, 
and  flowing  off  in  a  corner  behind,  shall  gleam  through  the 
thickening  night  like  a  suburb  comet !  Trust  not  the  tempting 
yawn  of  stable-yard  or  gate-way,  or  the  impossible  notion  of  a 
coach  !  The  rain  will  continue  ;  and,  alas  !  ye  are  not  so  rich 
as  in  the  morning.  Hasten  !  or  think  of  a  new  hat's  becoming 
a  rain-spout  !  Think  of  its  well-built  crown,  its  graceful  and 
well-measured  fit,  the  curved-up  elegance  of  its  rim,  its  shadow- 
ing gentility  when  seen  in  front,  its  arching  grace  over  the  ear 
when  beheld  sideways  !  Think  of  it  also  the  next  day  !  How 
altered,  how  dejected  ! 

How  changed  from  him. 
That  life  of  measure  and  that  soul  of  rim  ! 

Think  of  the  paper-like  change  of  its  consistence ;  of  its  limp 
sadness — its  confused  and  flattened  nap,  and  of  that  polished 
and  perfect  circle,  which  neither  brush  nor  hot  iron  shall 
restore  ! 

We  have  here  spoken  of  the  beauties  of  a  new  hat ;  but 
abstractedly  considered,  they  are  very  problematical.  Fashion 
makes  beauty  for  a  time.  Our  ancestors  found  a  grace  in  the 
cocked  hats  now  confined  to  beadles,  Chelsea  pensioners,  and 
coachmen.  They  would  have  laughed  at  our  chimney-tops 
with  a  border :  though  upon  the  whole  we  do  think  them  the 
more  graceful  of  the  two.  The  best  modern  covering  for  the 
head  was  the  imitation  of  the  broad  Spanish  hat  in  use  about 
thirty  years  back,  when  Mr.  Stothard  made  his  designs  for  the 
Novelist's  Magazine.     But  in  proportion  as  society  has  been  put 


15S  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxix 

into  a  bustle,  our  hats  seem  to  have  narrowed  their  dimensions : 
their  flaps  were  clipped  off  more  and  more  till  they  became  a 
rim  ;  and  now  the  rim  has  contracted  to  a  mere  nothing  ;  so  that 
what  with  our  close  heads  and  our  tight  succinct  mode  of  dress, 
we  look  as  if  we  were  intended  for  nothing  but  to  dart  back- 
wards and  forwards  on  matters  of  business,  with  as  little  hin- 
drance to  each  other  as  possible. 

This  may  give  us  a  greater  distaste  to  the  hat  than  it 
deserves  ;  but  good-looking  or  not,  we  know  of  no  situation  in 
which  a  new  one  can  be  said  to  be  useful.  We  have  seen  how 
the  case  is  during  bad  weather :  but  if  the  weather  is  in  the 
finest  condition  possible,  with  neither  rain  nor  dust,  there  may 
be  a  hot  sunshine ;  and  then  the  hat  is  too  narrow  to  shade  us : 
no  great  evil,  it  is  true ;  but  we  must  have  our  pique  out  against 
the  knave,  and  turn  him  to  the  only  account  in  our  power : — we 
must  write  upon  him.  For  every  other  purpose,  we  hold  him  as 
naught.  The  only  place  a  new  hat  can  be  carried  into  with 
safety,  is  a  church  ;  for  there  is  plenty  of  room  there.  There 
also  takes  place  its  only  union  of  the  ornamental  with  the  use- 
ful, if  so  it  is  to  be  called:  we  allude  to  the  preparatory  ejacula- 
tion whispered  into  it  by  the  genteel  worshipper,  before  he 
turns  round  and  makes  a  bow  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jones  and  the 
Miss  Thompsons.  There  is  a  formula  for  this  occasion  ;  and 
doubtless  it  is  often  used,  to  say  nothing  of  extempore  effusions  : 
but  there  are  wicked  imaginations,  who  suspect  that  instead  of 
devouter  whisperings,  the  communer  with  his  lining  sometimes 
ejaculates  no  more  than  Swallow,  St.  James's-street;  or,  Augarde 
and  Spain,  Hatters,  No.  51,  Oxford-street,  London  : — after  which 
he  draws  up  his  head  with  infinite  gravity  and  preparation,  and 
makes  the  gentle  recognitions  aforesaid. 

But  wherever  there  is  a  crowd,  the  new  hat  is  worse  than 
useless.  It  is  a  pity  that  the  general  retrenchment  of  people's 
finances  did  away  with  the  flat  opera  hat,  which  was  a  very 
sensible  thing.  The  round  one  is  only  in  the  way.  The  matting 
over  the  floor  of  the  Opera  does  not  hinder  it  from  getting  dusty  ; 
not  to  mention  its  chance  of  a  kick  from  the  inconsiderate.  But 
from  the  pit  of  the  other  theatres,  you  may  bring  it  away 
covered  with  sawdust,  or  rubbed  up  all  the  wrong  way  of  the 


CHAP.  XXIX.]  A  CHAPTER  ON  HATS.  159 

nap,  or  monstrously  squeezed  into  a  shapeless  lump.  The  least 
thing  to  be  expected  in  a  pressure,  is  a  great  poke  in  its  side 
like  a  sunken  cheek. 

Boating  is  a  mortal  enemy  to  new  hats.  A  shower  has  you 
fast  in  a  common  boat ;  or  a  sail-line,  or  an  inexperienced  oar, 
may  knock  the  hat  ofT:  and  then  fancy  it  tilting  over  the  water 
with  the  tide,  soaked  all  the  while  beyond  redemption,  and 
escaping  from  the  tips  of  your  outstretched  fingers,  while  you 
ought  all  to  be  pulling  the  contrary  way  home. 

But  of  all  wrong  boxes  for  a  new  hat,  avoid  a  mail-coach.  If 
you  keep  it  on,  you  will  begin  nodding  perhaps  at  midnight,  and 
then  it  goes  jamming  against  the  side  of  the  coach,  to  the  equal 
misery  of  its  nap  and  your  own.  If  you  take  it  off,  where  is  its 
refuge  ?  Will  the  clergyman  take  the  least  heed  of  it,  who  is 
snoring  comfortably  in  one  corner  in  his  night-cap  ?  Or  will 
the  farmer,  jolting  about  inexorably  ?  Or  the  regular  traveller, 
who,  in  his  fur-cap  and  infinite  knowledge  of  highway  conve- 
niences, has  already  beheld  it  with  contempt  ?  Or  the  old 
market-woman,  whom  it  is  in  vain  to  request  to  be  tender  ?  Or 
the  young  damsel,  who  wonders  how  you  can  think  of  sleeping 
in  such  a  thing  ?  In  the  morning  you  suddenly  miss  your  hat, 
and  ask  after  it  with  trepidation.  The  traveller  smiles.  They 
all  move  their  legs,  but  know  nothing  of  it ;  till  the  market- 
woman  exclaims,  "  Deary  me  !  Well — lord,  only  think  !  A 
hat  is  it,  sir  ?  Why  I  do  believe, — but  I  'm  sure  I  never  thought 
o'  such  a  thing  more  than  the  child  unborn, — that  it  must  be  a 
hat  then  which  I  took  for  a  pan  I  've  been  a  buying ;  and^yso 
I  've  had  my  warm  foot  in  it,  Lord  help  us,  ever  since  five 
o'clock  this  blessed  morning  !" 

It  is  but  fair  to  add,  that  we  happen  to  have  an  educated 
antipathy  to  the  hat.  At  our  school  no  hats  were  worn,  and  the 
cap  is  too  small  to  be  a  substitute.  Its  only  use  is  to  astonish 
the  old  ladies  in  the  street,  who  wonder  how  so  small  a  thing 
can  be  kept  on ;  and  to  this  end  we  u.sed  to  rub  it  into  the  back 
or  side  of  the  head,  where  it  hung  like  a  worsted  wonder.  It  is 
after  the  fashion  of  Catharine's  cap  in  the  play  :  it  seems  as  if 

Moulded  on  a  porringer  : 
Why, 'tis  a  cockle,  or  a  walnut-shell. 


160  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxix 

A  knack,  a  toy,  a  trick,  a  baby's  cap  ; 
A  custard  coffin,  a  bauble. 

But  we  may  not  add 

I  love  thee  well,  in  that  thou  likest  it  no; 

111  befall  us,  if  we  ever  dislike  anything  about  thee,  old  nurse 
or'  our  childhood  !  How  independent  of  the  weather  used  we  to 
feel  in  our  old  friar's  dress, — our  thick  shoes,  yellow  worsted 
stockings,  and  coarse  long  coat  or  gown  !  Our  cap  was  oftener 
in  our  hand  than  on  our  head,  let  the  weather  be  what  it  would. 
We  felt  a  pride  as  well  as  pleasure,  when  everybody  else  was 
hurrying  through  the  streets,  in  receiving  the  full  summer 
showers  with  uncovered  poll,  sleeking  our  glad  hair  like  the 
feathers  of  a  bird. 

It  must  be  said  for  hats  in  general,  that  they  are  a  very 
ancient  part  of  dress,  perhaps  the  m(3st  ancient;  for  a  negro, 
who  has  nothing  else  upon  him,  sometimes  finds  it  necessary  to 
guard  off  the  sun  with  a  hat  of  leaves  or  straw.  The  Chinese, 
who  carry  their  records  farther  back  than  any  other  people,  are 
a  hatted  race,  both  narrow-brimmed  and  broad.  We  are  apt  to 
think  of  the  Greeks  as  a  bare-headed  people  ;  and  they  liked  to 
be  so  ;  buttliey  had  hats  for  journeying  in,  such  as  may  be  seen 
on  the  statues  of  Mercury,  who  was  the  god  of  travellers.  They 
were  large  and  flapped,  and  were  sometimes  fastened  round  un- 
der the  chin  like  a  lady's  bonnet.  The  Eastern  nations  gene- 
rally wore  turbans,  and  do  still,  with  the  exception  of  the  Per- 
sians,  who  have  exchanged  them  for  large  conical  caps  of  felt. 
The  Romans  copied  the  Greeks  in  their  dress,  as  in  everything 
else ;  but  the  poorer  orders  wore  a  cap  like  their  boasted 
Phrygian  ancestors,  resembling  the  one  which  the  reader  may 
see  about  the  streets  upon  the  bust  of  Canova's  Paris.  The 
others  would  put  their  robes  about  their  heads,  upon  occasion, — > 
after  the  fashion  of  the  hoods  of  the  middle  ages,  and  of  the  cloth 
head-dresses  which  we  see  in  the  portraits  of  Dante  and  Pe- 
trarch. Of  a  similar  mode  are  the  draperies  on  the  heads  of 
our  old  Plantagenet  kings  and  of  Chaucer.  The  velvet  cap 
which  succeeded,  appears  to  have  come  from  Italy,  as  seen  in 


CHAP.  XXIX.]  A  CHAPTER  ON  HATS.  101 

the  portraits  of  Raphael  and  Titian  ;  and  it  would  probably  have 
continued  till  the  French  times  of  Charles  the  Second,  for  our 
ancestors,  up  to  that  period,  were  great  admirers  of  Italy,  had 
not  Philip  the  Second  of  Spain  come  over  to  marry  our  Queen 
Mary.  The  extreme  heats  of  Spain  had  forced  the  natives  upon 
taking  to  that  ingenious  compound  of  the  hat  and  umbrella,  still 
known  by  the  name  of  the  Spanish  hat.  We  know  not  whether 
Philip  himself  wore  it.  His  father,  Charles  the  Fifth,  who  was 
at  the  top  of  the  world,  is  represented  as  delighting  in  a  little 
humble-looking  cap.  But  we  conceive  it  was  either  from  Philip, 
or  some  gentleman  in  his  train,  that  the  hat  and  feather  suc- 
ceeded among  us  to  the  cap  and  jewels  of  Henry  the  Eighth. 
The  ascendency  of  Spain  in  those  times  carried  it  into  other 
parts  of  Europe.  The  Fi'ench,  not  requiring  so  much  shade 
from  the  sun,  and  always  playing  with  and  altering  their  dress, 
as  a  child  does  his  toy,  first  covered  the  brim  with  feathers,  then 
gave  them  a  pinch  in  front;  then  came  pinches  up  at  the  side  ; 
and  at  last  appeared  the  fierce  and  triple-daring  cocked  hat. 
This  disappeared  in  our  childhood,  or  only  survived  among  the 
military,  the  old,  and  the  reverend,  who  could  not  willingly 
part  with  their  habitual  dignity.  An  old  beau  or  so  would  also 
retain  it,  in  memory  of  its  victories  when  young.  We  remem- 
ber its  going  away  from  the  heads  of  the  foot-guards.  The 
heavy  dragoons  retained  it  till  lately.  It  is  now  almost  sunk 
into  the  mock-heroic,  and  confined,  as  we  before  observed,  to 
beadles  and  coachmen,  &c.  The  modern  clerical  beaver, 
agreeably  to  the  deliberation  with  which  our  establishments 
depart  from  all  custom,  is  a  cocked  hat  with  the  front  flap  let 
down,  and  only  a  slight  pinch  remaining  behind.  This  is  worn 
also  by  the  judges,  the  lawyers  being  of  clerical  extraction. 
Still,  however,  the  true  cocked  hat  lingers  here  and  there  with  a 
solitary  old  gentleman  ;  and  wherever  it  appears  in  such  com- 
pany, begets  a  certain  retrospective  reverence.  There  was  a 
something  in  its  connexion  with  the  high-bred  drawing-room 
times  of  the  seventeenth  century;  in  the  gallant  though  quaint 
ardor  of  its  look ;  and  in  its  being  lifted  up  in  salutations  with 
that  deliberate  loftiness,  the  arm  arching  up  in  front  and  the 
hand  slowly  raising  it  by  the  front  angle  with  finger  and  thumb 


1G2  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  xxix. 

—that  could  not  easily  die.  We  remember,  when  our  steward 
at  school,  remarkable  for  his  inflexible  air  of  precision  and  dig- 
nity,  left  off  his  cocked  hat  for  a  round  one;  there  was,  undoubt- 
edly, though  we  dared  only  half  confess  it  to  our  minds,  a  sort 
of  diminished  majesty  about  him.  His  infinite  self-possession 
began  to  look  remotely  finite.  His  Crown  Imperial  was  a  little 
blighted.  It  was  like  divesting  a  column  of  its  capital.  But 
the  native  stateliness  was  there,  informing  the  new  hat.     He 

Had  not  yet  lost 
All  his  original  beaver :  nor  appeared 
Less  than  arch-steward  ruined,  and  the  excess 
Of  glory  obscured. 

The  late  Emperor  Paul  had  conceived  such  a  sense  of  the 
dignity  of  the  cocked  hat,  aggravated  by  its  having  been  deposed 
by  the  round  one  of  the  French  republicans,  that  he  ordered  all 
persons  in  his  dominions  never  to  dare  be  seen  in  public  with 
round  hats,  upon  pain  of  being  knouted  and  sent  to  Siberia. 

Hats  being  the  easiest  part  of  the  European  dress  to  be  taken 
off*,  are  doffed  among  us  out  of  reverence.  The  Orientals,  on 
the  same  account,  put  off"  their  slippers  instead  of  turbans, 
which  is  the  reason  why  the  Jews  still  keep  their  heads  covered 
during  worship.  The  Spanish  grandees  have  the  privilege  of 
wearing  their  hats  in  the  royal  presence,  probably  in  comme- 
moration of  the  free  spirit  in  which  the  Cortes  used  to  crown 
the  sovereign  ;  telling  him  (we  suppose  in  their  corporate  capa- 
city) that  they  were  better  men  than  he,  but  chose  him  of  their 
own  free  will  for  their  master.  The  grandees  only  claim  to  be 
as  good  men,  unless  their  families  are  older.  There  is  a  well- 
known  story  of  a  picture,  in  which  the  Vi;  gin  Mary  is  repre- 
sented with  a  label  coming  out  of  her  mouth,  saying  to  a  Span- 
ish gentleman  who  has  politely  taken  off*  his  hat,  "Cousin,  be 
covered."  But  the  most  interesting  anecdote  connected  with  a 
bat  belongs  to  the  family  of  the  De  Courcys,  Lord  Kinsale.  One 
of  their  ancestors,  at  an  old  period  of  our  history,  having  over- 
thrown a  huge  and  insolent  champion,  who  had  challenged  the 
whole  court,  was  desired  by  the  king  to  ask  him  some  favor.  He 
requested  that  his  descendants  should  have  the  privilege  of  keep- 


CKAP.  XXIX.]  A  CHAPTER  ON  HATS.  v63 

ing  their  heads  covered  in  the  royal  presence,  ana  tl-jey  do  so  to 
this  day.  The  new  lord,  we  believe,  always  comes  to  court  on 
purpose  to  vindicate  his  right.  We  have  heard,  that  on  the  last 
occasion,  probably  after  a  long  interval,  some  of  the  courtiers 
thought  it  might  as  well  have  been  dispensed  with :  which  was 
a  foolish  as  well  as  a  jealous  thing,  for  these  exceptions  only 
prove  the  royal  rule.  The  Spanish  grandees  originally  took 
their  privilege  instead  of  receiving  it ;  but,  when  the  spirit  of  it 
had  gone,  their  covered  heads  were  only  so  many  intense  recog- 
nitions of  the  king's  dignity,  which  it  was  thought  such  a  mighty 
thing  to  resemble.  A  Quaker's  hat  is  a  more  formidable  thing 
than  a  grandee's. 

15 


164  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxx 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

Seamen  on  Shore. 

The  sole  business  of  a  seaman  on  shore,  who  has  to  go  to  sea 
again,  is  to  take  as  much  pleasure  as  he  can.  The  moment  he 
sets  his  foot  on  dry  ground,  he  turns  his  back  on  all  salt  beef 
and  other  salt-water  restrictions.  His  long  absence,  and  the 
impossibility  of  getting  land  pleasures  at  sea,  put  him  upon  a 
sort  of  desperate  appetite.  He  lands,  like  a  conqueror  taking 
possession.  He  has  been  debarred  so  long,  that  he  is  resolved- 
to  have  that  matter  out  with  the  inhabitants.  They  must  render 
an  account  to  him  of  their  treasures,  their  women,  their  victual- 
ling-stores, their  entertainments,  their  everything  ;  and  in  return 
he  will  behave  like  a  gentleman,  and  scatter  his  gold. 

His  first  sensation  at  landing,  is  the  strange  firmness  of  the 
earth,  which  he  goes  treading  in  a  sort  of  heavy  light  way,  half 
wagoner  and  half  dancing-master,  his  shoulders  rolling,  and  his 
feet  touching  and  going  ;  the  same  way,  in  short,  in  which  he 
keeps  himself  prepared  for  all  the  chances  of  the  vessel,  when 
on  deck.  There  is  always  this  appearance  of  lightness  of  foot 
and  heavy  strength  of  upper  works,  in  a  sailor.  And  he  feels  it 
himself.  He  lets  his  jacket  fly  open,  and  his  shoulder  slouch, 
and  his  hair  grow  long,  to  be  gathered  into  a  heavy  pig-tail  ;  but 
when  full  dressed,  he  prides  himself  on  a  certain  gentility  of  toe, 
on  a  white  stocking  and  a  natty  shoe,  issuing  lightly  out  of  the 
flowing  blue  trowser.  His  arms  are  neutral,  hanging  and 
swinging  in  a  curve  aloof;  his  hands  half  open,  as  if  they  had 
just  been  handling  ropes,  and  had  no  object  in  life  but  to  handle 
them  again»  He  is  proud  of  appearing  in  a  new  hat  and  slops, 
with  a  Belcher  handkerchief  flowing  loosely  round  his  neck,  and 
the  corner  of  another  out  of  his  pocket.  Thus  equipped,  with 
pinchbeck  buckles  ir  his  shoes  (which  he  bought  for  gold),  he 
puts  some  tobacco  in  his  mouth,  not  as  if  he  were  going  to  use  it 


CHAP.  XXX.]  S  lAMEN  ON  SHORE.  Ifi.-i 

directly,  but  as  if  he  stuffed  it  in  a  pouch  on  one  side,  as  a  peli- 
can does  fish,  to  employ  it  hereafter ;  and  so,  with  Bet  Monson 
at  his  side,  and  perhaps  a  cane  or  whanghee  twisted  under  his 
other  arm,  sallies  forth  to  take  possession  of  the  Lubber- 
land.  He  buys  everything  that  he  comes  athwart — nuts,  gin- 
gerbread, apples,  shoe-strings,  beer,  brandy,  gin,  buckles,  knives, 
a  watch  (two,  if  he  has  money  enough),  gowns  and  handker- 
chiefs for  Bet  and  his  mother  and  sisters,  dozens  of  "  Superfine 
Best  Men's  Cotton  Stockings,"  dozens  of  "  Superfine  Best  Wo- 
men's Cotton  Ditto,"  best  good  Check  for  Shirts  (though  he  has 
too  much  already),  infinite  needles  and  thread  (to  sew  his  trow- 
sers  with  some  day),  a  footman's  laced  hat,  Bear's  Grease,  to 
make  his  hair  grow  (by  way  of  joke),  several  sticks,  all  sorts  of 
Jew  articles,  a  flute  (which  he  can't  play,  and  never  intends),  a 
leg  of  mutton,  which  he  carries  somewhere  to  roast,  and  for  a 
piece  of  which  the  landlord  of  the  Ship  makes  him  pay  twice 
what  he  gave  for  the  whole  ;  in  short,  all  that  money  can  be 
spent  upon,  which  is  everything  but  medicine  gratis,  and  this  he 
would  insist  on  paying  for.  He  would  buy  all  the  painted  par- 
rots on  an  Italian's  head,  on  purpose  to  break  them,  rather  than 
not  spend  his  money.  He  has  fiddles  and  a  dance  at  the  Ship, 
with  oceans  of  flip  and  grog  ;  and  gives  the  blind  fiddler  tobacco 
for  sweetmeats,  and  half-a-crown  for  treading  on  his  toe.  He 
asks  the  landlady,  with  a  sigh,  after  her  daughter  Nanse,  who 
first  fired  his  heart  with  her  silk  stockings  ;  and  finding  that  she  is 
married  and  in  trouble,  leaves  five  crowns  for  her,  which  the  old 
lady  appropriates  as  part  payment  for  a  shilling  in  advance.  He 
goes  to  the  Port  playhouse  with  Bet  Monson,  and  a  great  red 
handkerchief  full  of  apples,  gingerbread  nuts,  and  fresh  beef; 
calls  out  for  the  fiddlers  and  Rule  Britannia;  pelts  Tom  Sikes 
in  the  pit ;  and  compares  Othello  to  the  black  ship's  cook  in  his 
white  nightcap.  When  he  comes  to  London,  he  and  some  mess- 
mates take  a  hackney-coach,  full  of  Bet  Monsons  and  tobacco- 
pipes,  and  go  through  the  streets  smoking  and  lolling  out  of 
window.  He  has  ever  been  cautious  of  venturing  on  horseback, 
and  among  his  other  sights  in  foreign  parts,  relates  with  unfeign- 
ed astonishment  how  he  has  seen  the  Turks  ride  :  "  Only,"  says 
he,  guarding  against  the  hearer's  incredulity,  "  they  have  sad- 


166  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  xxx. 

die-boxes  to  hold  'ei  i  in,  fore  and  aft,  and  shovels  like  for  stir, 
rups."  He  will  teL  you  how  the  Chinese  drink,  and  the  Negurs 
(Jf-ince,  and  the  monkeys  pelt  you  with  cocoa-nuts ;  and  how 
King  Domy  would  have  built  him  a  mud  hut  and  made  him  a 
peer  of  the  realm,  if  he  would  have  stopped  with  him,  and  taught 
him  to  make  trowsers.  He  has  a  sister  at  a  "  School  for  Young 
Ladies,"  who  blushes  with  a  mixture  of  pleasure  and  shame  at 
his  appearance ;  and  whose  confusion  he  completes  by  slipping 
fourpence  into  her  hand,  and  saying  out  loud  that  he  has  "■  no 
more  copper  "  about  him.  His  mother  and  elder  sisters  at  home 
doat  on  all  he  says  and  does  ;  telling  him,  however,  that  he  is  a 
great  sea  fellow,  and  was  always  wild  ever  since  he  was  a  hop- 
o'-my-thumb,  no  higher  than  the  window  locker.  He  tells  his 
mother  that  she  would  be  a  duchess  in  Paranaboo ;  at  which  the 
good  old  portly  dame  laughs  and  looks  proud.  When  his  sisters 
complain  of  his  romping,  he  says  that  they  are  only  sorry  it  is 
not  the  baker.  He  frightens  them  with  a  mask  made  after  the 
New  Zealand  fashion,  and  is  forgiven  for  his  learning.  Their 
mantel-piece  is  filled  by  him  with  shells  and  shark's  teeth  ;  and 
when  he  goes  to  sea  again,  there  is  no  end  of  tears,  and  "  God 
bless  you's  !"  and  home-made  gingerbread. 

His  Officer  on  shore  does  much  of  all  this,  only,  generally 
speaking,  in  a  higher  taste.  The  moment  he  lands,  he  buys 
quantities  of  jewellery  and  other  valuables,  for  all  the  females 
of  his  acquaintance ;  and  is  taken  in  for  every  article.  He 
.sends  in  a  cart-load  of  fresh  meat  to  the  ship,  though  he  is  going 
to  town  next  day  ;  and  calling  in  at  a  chandler's  for  some  can- 
dles, is  persuaded  to  buy  a  dozen  of  green  wax,  with  which  he 
lights  up  the  ship  at  evening ;  regretting  that  the  fine  moonlight 
hinders  the  effect  of  the  color.  A  man,  with  a  bundle  beneath 
his  arm,  accosts  him  in  an  under  tone  ;  and,  with  a  look  in 
which  respect  for  his  knowledge  is  mixed  with  an  avowed  zeal 
for  his  own  interest,  asks  if  his  Honor  will  just  step  under  the 
gangway  here,  and  inspect  some  real  India  shawls.  The  gallant 
Lieutenant  says  to  himself,  "  This  fellow  knows  what's  what, 
by  his  face  ;"  and  so  he  proves  it,  by  being  taken  in  on  the 
spot.  When  he  brings  the  shawls  home,  he  says  to  his  sister 
'vith  an  air  of  triumph,  <'  There,  Poll,  there's  something  for  you 


CHAP.  XXX.]  SEAMEN  ON  SHORE.  161 

only  cost  me  twelve,  and  is  worth  twenty  if  it 's  worth  a  dollar."' 
She  turns  pale — "  Twenty  what,  my  dear  George  ?  Wliy,  you 
haven't  given  twelve  dollars  for  it,  I  hope  ?"  "  Not  I,  by  the 
Lord."  "  That's  lucky ;  because  you  see,  my  dear  George, 
that  all  together  is  not  worth  more  than  fourteen  or  fifteen  shil- 
lings." "Fourteen  or  fifteen  what!  Why  it's  real  India,  en't 
it?  Why  the  fellow  told  me  so;  or  I'm  sure  I'd  as  soon" — ■ 
(here  he  tries  to  hide  his  blushes  with  a  bluster) — I'd  as  soon 
have  given  him  twelve  douses  on  the  chaps  as  twelve  guineas." 
"Twelve  guineas!"  exclaims  the  sister;  and  then  drawling 
forth,  "  Why — my — dear — George,"  is  proceeding  to  show  him 
what  the  articles  would  have  cost  at  Condell's  when  he  inter- 
rupts her  by  requesting  her  to  go  and  choose  for  herself  a  tea- 
table  service.  He  then  makes  his  escape  to  some  messmates  at 
a  coffee-house,  and  drowns  his  recollection  of  the  shawls  in  the 
best  wine,  and  a  discussion  on  the  comparative  merits  of  the 
English  and  West-Indian  beauties  and  tables.  At  the  theatre 
afterwards,  where  he  has  never  been  before,  he  takes  a  lady  at 
the  back  of  one  of  the  boxes  for  a  woman  of  quality  ;  and  when 
after  returning  his  long  respectful  gaze  with  a  smile,  she  turns 
aside  and  puts  her  handkerchief  to  her  mouth,  he  thinks  it  is  in 
derision,  till  his  friend  undeceives  him.  He  is  introduced  to  the 
lady  ;  and  ever  afterwards,  at  first  sight  of  a  woman  of  quality 
(without  any  disparagement  either  to  those  charming  person- 
ages), expects  her  to  give  him  a  smile.  He  thinks  the  other 
ladies  much  better  creatures  than  they  are  taken  for  ;  and  for 
their  parts,  they  tell  him,  that  if  all  men  were  like  himself,  they 
would  trust  the  sex  again : — which,  for  aught  we  know,  is  the 
truth.  He  has,  indeed,  what  he  thinks  a  very  liberal  opinion  of 
ladies  in  general :  judging  them  all,  in  a  manner,  with  the  eye  of 
a  seaman's  experience.  Yet  he  will  believe  nevertheless  in  the 
"  true-love  "  of  any  given  damsel  whom  he  seeks  in  the  way  of 
marriage,  let  him  roam  as  much,  or  remain  as  long  at  a  distance, 
as  he  may.  It  is  not  that  he  Avants  feeling  ;  but  that  he  has  road 
of  it,  time  out  of  mind,  in  songs  ;  and  he  looks  upon  constancy  as  a 
sort  of  exploit,  ans\"  ering  to  those  which  he  performs  at  sea.  He 
is  nice  in  his  watches  and  linen.  He  makes  you  presents  of 
cornelians,  antique  seals,  cocoa-nuts  set  in  silver,  and  other  valu- 

15* 


168  THE  INDICATOR  [chap,  xxx 

ables.  When  he  shakes  hands  with  you,  ii  is  like  being  caught 
in  a  windlass.  He  would  not  swagger  about  the  streets  in  his 
uniform,  for  the  world.  He  is  generally  modest  in  company, 
though  liable  to  be  irritated  by  what  he  thinks  ungentlemanly 
behavior.  He  is  also  liable  to  be  rendered  irritable  by  sick- 
ness ;  partly  because  he  has  been  used  to  command  others,  and 
to  be  served  with  all  possible  deference  and  alacrity  ;  and  partly, 
because  the  idea  of  suffering  pain,  without  any  honor  or  profit  to 
get  by  it,  is  unprofessional,  and  he  is  not  accustomed  to  it.  He 
treats  talents  unlike  his  own  with  great  respect.  He  often  per- 
ceives his  own  so  little  felt,  that  it  teaches  him  this  feeling  for 
that  of  others.  Besides,  he  admires  the  quantity  of  information 
which  people  can  get,  without  travelling  like  himself ;  especially 
when  he  sees  how  interesting  his  own  becomes,  to  them  as  well 
as  to  everybody  else.  When  he  tells  a  story,  particularly  if  full 
of  wonders,  he  takes  care  to  maintain  his  character  for  truth 
and  simplicity,  by  qualifying  it  with  all  possible  reservations, 
concessions,  and  anticipations  of  objection ;  such  as  "  in  case, 
at  such  times  as,  so  to  speak,  as  it  were,  at  least,  at  any  rate." 
He  seldom  uses  sea-terms  but  when  jocosely  provoked  by  some- 
thing contrary  to  his  habits  of  life  ;  as  for  instance,  if  he  is 
always  meeting  you  on  horseback,  he  asks  if  you  never  mean 
to  walk  the  deck  again  ;  or  if  he  finds  you  studying  day  after 
day,  he  says  you  are  always  overhauling  your  log-book.  He 
makes  more  new  acquaintances,  and  forgets  his  old  ones  less, 
than  any  other  man  in  the  busy  world  ;  for  he  is  so  compelled 
to  make  his  home  everywhere,  remembers  his  native  one  as 
such  a  place  of  enjoym,ent,  has  all  his  friendly  recollections  so 
fixed  upon  his  mind  at  sea,  and  has  so  much  to  tell  and  to  hear 
when  he  returns,  that  change  and  separatioi  lose  with  him  the 
most  heartless  part  of  their  nature.  He  alsc  seessucna  variety 
of  customs  and  manners,  that  he  becomes  charitable  in  his  opi- 
niorib  altogether ;  and  charity,  while  it  diffuses  the  affections., 
cannot  let  the  old  ones  go.  Half  the  secret  of  human  inter- 
course is  to  make  allowance  for  each  other. 

When  the  Officer  is  superannuated  or  retires,  he  becomes,  if 
intelligent  and  inquiring,  one  of  the  most  agreeable  old  men  in 
the  world,  equally  welcome  to  the  silent  for  his  card-playing 


CHAP.  XXX.]  SEAMEN  ON  SHORE.  169 

and  to  the  conversational  for  his  recollections.  He  is  fond  of 
astronomy  and  books  of  voyages,  and  is  immortal  with  all  who 
know  him  for  having  been  round  the  world,  or  seen  the  transit 
of  Venus,  or  had  one  of  his  fingers  carried  off  by  a  New  Zea- 
land hatchet,  or  a  present  of  feathers  from  an  Otaheitan  beauty, 
not  elevated  by  his  acquirements  above  some  of  his  humbler 
tastes,  he  delights  in  a  corner-cupboard  holding  his  cocoa-nuts 
and  punch-bowl ;  has  his  summer-house  castellated  and  planted 
with  wooden  cannon ;  and  sets  up  the  figure  of  his  old  ship,  the 
Britannia  or  the  Lovely  Nancy,  for  a  statue  in  the  garden , 
where  it  stares  eternally  with  red  cheeks  and  round  black  eyes, 
as  if  in  astonishment  at  its  situation. 

Chaucer,  who  wrote  his  Canterbury  Tales  about  four  hundred 
and  thirty  years  ago,  has  among  his  other  characters  in  that 
work  a  Shipman,  who  is  exactly  of  the  same  cast  as  the  modern 
sailor, — the  same  robustness,  courage,  and  rough-drawn  virtue, 
doing  its  duty,  without  being  very  nice  in  helping  itself  to  ita 
recreations.  There  is  the  very  dirk,  the  complexion,  the  jollity, 
the  experience,  and  the  bad  horsemanship.  The  plain  unaffect- 
ed ending  of  the  description  has  the  air  of  a  sailor's  own  speech  ; 
while  the  line  about  the  beard  is  exceedingly  picturesque,  poeti- 
cal, and  comprehensive.  In  copying  it  out,  we  shall  mereU 
alter  the  old  spelling,  where  the  words  are  still  modern. 

A  shipman  was  there,  wonned  far  by  west; 
For  aught  I  wot,  he  was  of  Dartemouth. 
He  rode  open  a  rouncle,  as  he  couth*, 
All  in  a  gown  of  faldiug  to  the  knee. 
A  dagger  hanging  by  a  lace  had  he, 
About  his  neck,  under  his  arm  adown : 
The  hot  summer  had  made  his  hew  all  brown : 
And  certainly  he  was  a  good  felaw. 
Full  many  a  draught  of  wine  he  hadde  draw 
From  Eourdeaux  ward,  while  that  the  chapman  slep 
Of  nice  conscience  took  he  no  keep. 
If  that  he  fought  and  had  the  higher  hand, 
By  water  he  sent  'em  home  to  every  land. 
But  of  his  craft,  to  reckon  well  his  tides, 
His  streames  and  his  strandes  him  besides, 

•  He  rode  upon  a  hack-horse,  as  well  as  he  could. 


no  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxx 

His  harborough,  his  moon,  and  his  lode  manage, 
There  was  not  such  from  Hull  unto  Carthage. 
Hardy  he  was,  and  wise,  I  undertake ; 
With  many  a  tempest  had  his  beard  been  shake 
He  knew  well  all  the  havens,  as  they  were, 
From  Gothland  to  the  Cape  de  Finisterre, 
And  every  creek  in  Briton  and  in  Spain. 
His  barge  ycleped  was  the  Magdelain. 

When  about  to  tell  his  Tale,  he  tells  his  fellow-travellers  that 
he  shall  clink  them  so  merry  a  bell, 

That  it  shall  waken  all  this  company: 
But  it  shall  not  be  of  philosophy, 
Nor  of  physick,  nor  of  terms  quaint  of  law , 
There  is  but  little  Latin  in  my  maw. 

The  story  he  tells  is  a  well-known  one  in  the  Italian  novels, 
of  a  monk  who  made  love  to  a  merchant's  wife,  and  borrowed 
a  hundred  francs  of  the  husband  to  give  her.  She  accordingly 
udmits  his  addresses  during  the  absence  of  her  good  man  on  a 
journey.  When  the  latter  returns,  he  applies  to  the  cunning 
monk  for  repayment,  and  is  referred  to  the  lady  ;  who  thus  finds 
her  mercenary  behavior  outwitted. 


CHAP  XXXI.]     ON  THE  REALITIES  OF  IMAGINATION.  171 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

On  the  Realities  of  Imagination. 

There  is  not  a  more  unthinking  way  of  talking,  than  to  say 
such  and  such  ^tains  and  pleasures  are  only  imaginary,  and 
therefore  to  be  got  rid  of  or  undervalued  accordingly.  There 
is  nothing  imaginary,  in  the  common  acceptation  of  the  word. 
The  logic  of  Moses  in  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  is  good  argument 
here  : — "  Whatever  is,  is."  Whatever  touches  us,  whatever 
moves  us,  does  touch  and  does  move  us.  We  recognize  the 
reality  of  it,  as  we  do  that  of  a  hand  in  the  dark.  We  might  as 
well  say  that  a  sight  which  makes  us  laugh,  or  a  blow  which 
brings  tears  into  our  eyes,  is  imaginary,  as  that  anything  else 
is  imaginary  which  makes  us  laugh  or  weep.  We  can  only 
judge  of  things  by  their  effects.  Our  perception  constantly 
deceives  us,  in  things  with  which  we  suppose  ourselves  perfectly 
conversant ;  but  our  reception  of  their  effect  is  a  different  mat- 
ter. Whether  we  are  materialists  or  immaterialists,  whether 
things  be  about  us  or  within  us,  whether  we  think  the  sun  is  a 
substance,  or  only  the  image  of  a  divine  thought,  an  idea,  a 
thing  imaginary,  we  are  equally  agreed  as  to  the  notion  of  its 
warmth.  But  on  the  other  hand,  as  this  warmth  is  felt  differ- 
ently by  different  temperaments,  so  what  we  call  imaginary 
things  affect  different  minds.  What  we  have  to  do  is  not  to 
deny  their  effect,  because  we  do  not  feel  in  the  same  proportion, 
or  whether  we  even  feel  it  at  all ;  but  to  see  whether  our  neigh- 
bors may  not  be  moved.  If  they  are,  there  is,  to  all  intents 
and  purposes,  a  moving  cause.  But  we  do  not  see  it  ?  No  ; — • 
neither  perhaps  do  they.  They  only  feel  it;  they  are  onlv 
sentient, — a  word  which  implies  the  sight  given  to  the  imagina- 
tion by  the  feelings.  But  what  do  you  mean,  we  may  ask  in 
return,  by  seeing  ?    Some  rays  of  light  come  in  contact  with  tho 


172  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxxi 

eye ;  they  bring  a  sensation  to  it ;  in  a  word,  they  touch  it ; 
and  the  impression  left  by  this  touch  we  call  sight.  How  far 
does  this  differ  in  effect  from  the  impression  left  by  any  other 
touch,  however  mysterious  ?  An  ox  knocked  down  by  a  butcher, 
and  a  man  knocked  down  by  a  fit  of  apoplexy,  equally  feel  them- 
selves compelled  to  drop.  The  tickling  of  a  straw  and  of  a 
comedy,  equally  move  the  muscles  about  the  mouth.  The  look 
of  a  beloved  eye  will  so  thrill  the  frame,  that  old  philosophers 
have  had  recourse  to  a  doctrine  of  beams  and  radiant  particles 
flying  from  one  sight  to  another.  In  fine,  what  is  contact  itself, 
and  why  does  it  affect  us  ?  There  is  no  one  cause  more  myste- 
rious than  another,  if  we  look  into  it. 

Nor  does  the  question  concern  us  like  moral  causes.  We 
may  be  content  to  know  the  earth  by  its  fruits ;  but  how  to  in- 
crease and  improve  them  is  a  more  attractive  study.  If  instead 
of  saying  that  the  causes  which  moved  in  us  this  or  that  pain  or 
pleasure  were  imaginary,  people  were  to  say  that  the  causes 
themselves  were  removeable,  they  would  be  nearer  the  truth. 
When  a  stone  trips  us  up,  we  do  not  fall  to  disputing  its  exist- 
ence :  we  put  it  out  of  the  way.  In  like  manner,  when  we 
suffer  fi*om  what  is  called  an  imaginary  pain,  our  business  is  not 
to  canvass  the  reality  of  it.  Whether  there  is  any  cause  or  not 
in  that  or  any  other  perception,  or  whether  everything  consist 
not  in  what  is  called  effect,  it  is  sufficient  for  us  that  the  effect  is 
real.  Our  sole  business  is  to  remove  those  second  causes,  which 
always  accompany  the  original  idea.  As  in  deliriums,  for  in- 
stance, it  would  be  idle  to  go  about  persuading  the  patient  that 
he  did  not  behold  the  figures  he  says  he  does.  He  might  reason- 
ably ask  us,  if  he  could,  how  we  know  anything  about  the  mat- 
ter ;  or  how  we  can  be  sure,  that  in  the  infinite  wonders  of  the 
universe,  certain  realities  may  not  become  apparent  to  certain 
eyes,  whether  diseased  or  not.  Our  business  would  be  to  put 
him  into  that  state  of  health,  in  which  human  beings  are  not 
diverted  from  their  offices  and  comforts  by  a  liability  to  «iuch 
imagmations.  The  best  reply  to  his  question  would  be,  that 
such  a  morbidity  is  clearly  no  more  a  fit  state  for  a  human  being, 
than  a  disarranged  or  incomplete  state  of  works  is  for  a  watch ; 
und  that  seemg  the  general  tendency  of  nature  to  this  complete- 


CHAP.  XXXI.]     ON  THE  REALITIES  OF  IMAGINATION.  173 

ness  or  state  of  comfort,  we  naturally  conclude,  that  the  imagi- 
nations in  question,  whether  substantial  or  not,  are  at  least  not 
of  the  same  lasting  or  prevailing  description. 

We  do  not  profess  metaphysics.  We  are  indeed  so  little 
conversant  with  the  masters  of  that  art,  that  we  are  never  sure 
whether  we  are  using  even  its  proper  terms.  All  that  we  may 
know  on  the  subject  comes  to  us  from  some  reflection  and  somft 
experience ;  and  this  all  may  be  so  little  as  to  make  a  metaphy- 
sician smile ;  which,  if  he  be  a  true  one,  he  will  do  good-na- 
turedly. The  pretender  will  take  occasion,  from  our  very  con- 
fession, to  say  that  we  know  nothing.  Our  faculty,  such  as  it 
is,  is  rather  instinctive  than  reasoning  ;  rather  physical  than 
metaphysical ;  rather  sentient  because  it  loves  much,  than  be- 
cause it  knows  much ;  rather  calculated  by  a  certain  retention 
of  boyhood,  and  by  its  wanderings  in  the  green  places  of  thought, 
to  light  upon  a  piece  of  the  old  golden  world,  than  to  tire  our- 
selves, and  conclude  it  unattainable,  by  too  wide  and  scientific 
a  search.  We  pretend  to  see  farther  than  none  but  the  worldly 
and  the  malignant.  And  yet  those  who  see  farther,  may  not  all 
see  so  well.  We  do  not  blind  our  eyes  with  looking  upon  the 
sun  in  the  heavens.  We  believe  it  to  be  there,  but  we  find  its 
light  upon  earth  also;  and  we  would  lead  humanity,  if  we  could, 
out  of  misery  and  coldness  into  the  shine  of  it.  Pain  might  still 
be  there  ;  must  be  so,  as  long  as  we  are  mortal ; 

For  oft  we  still  must  weep,  since  we  are  human : 

but  it  should  be  pain  for  the  sake  of  others,  which  is  noble ;  not 
unnecessary  pain  inflicted  by  or  upon  them,  which  it  is  absurd 
not  to  remove.  The  very  pains  of  mankind  struggle  towards 
pleasures  ;  and  such  pains  as  are  proper  for  them  have  this 
ine\itable  accompaniment  of  true  humanity, — that  they  cannot 
but  realize  a  certain  gentleness  of  enjoyment.  Thus  the  true 
bearer  of  pain  would  come  round  to  us ;  and  he  would  not 
grudge  us  a  share  of  his  burden,  though  in  taking  from  his 
trouble  it  might  diminish  his  pride.  Pride  is  but  a  bad  pleasure 
at  the  expense  of  others.  The  great  object  of  humanity  is  to 
enrich  everyboly.     If  it  is  a  task  destined  not  to  succeed,  it  is 


"4  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxxi 

a  good  one  from  its  very  nature ;  and  fulfils  at  least  a  glad 
destiny  of  its  own.  To  look  upon  it  austerely  is  in  reality  the 
reverse  of  austerity.  It  is  only  such  an  impatience  of  the  want 
of  pleasure  as  leads  us  to  grudge  it  in  others ;  and  this  impa- 
tience itself,  if  the  sufferer  knew  how  to  use  it,  is  but  another 
impulse,  in  the  general  yearning,  towards  an  equal  wealth  of 
enjoyment. 

But  we  shall  be  getting  into  other  discussions. — The  ground- 
work of  all  happiness  is  health.  Take  care  of  this  ground  ; 
and  the  doleful  imaginations  that  come  to  warn  us  against  its 
abuse,  will  avoid  it.  Take  care  of  this  ground,  and  let  as  many 
glad  imaginations  throng  to  it  as  possible.  Read  the  magical 
works  of  the  poets,  and  they  will  come.  If  you  doubt  their 
existence,  ask  yourself  whether  you  feel  pleasure  at  the  idea  of 
them  ;  whether  you  are  moved  into  delicious  smiles,  or  tears  as 
delicious.  If  you  are,  the  result  is  the  same  to  you,  whether 
they  exist  or  not.  It  is  not  mere  words  to  say,  that  he  who  goes 
through  a  rich  man's  park,  and  sees  things  in  it  which  never 
bless  the  mental  eyesight  of  the  possessor,  is  richer  than  he. 
He  is  richer.  More  results  of  pleasure  come  home  to  him. 
The  ground  is  actually  more  fertile  to  him  :  the  place  haunted 
with  finer  shapes.  He  has  more  servants  to  come  at  his  call, 
and  administer  to  him  with  full  hands.  Knowledge,  sympathy, 
imagination,  are  all  divining-rods,  with  which  he  discovers 
treasure.  Let  a  painter  go  through  the  grounds,  and  he  will 
see  not  only  the  general  colors  of  green  and  brown,  but  their 
combinations  and  contrasts,  and  the  modes  in  which  they  might 
again  be  combined  and  contrasted.  He  will  also  put  figures  in 
the  landscape  if  there  are  none  there,  flocks  and  herds,  or  a 
solitary  spectator,  or  Venus  lying  with  her  white  body  among 
the  violets  and  primroses.  Let  a  musician  go  through,  and  he 
will  hear  "differences  discreet"  in  the  notes  of  the  birds  and 
the  lapsing  of  the  water-fall.  He  will  fancy  a  serenade  of  wind 
instruments  in  the  open  air  at  a  lady's  window,  with  a  voice 
rising  through  it ;  or  the  horn  of  the  hunter ;  or  the  musical 
cry  of  the  hounds, 

Matched  in  mouth  like  bells, 
Each  under  each ; 


CTHAP.  XXXI.]     ON  THE  REALITIES  OF  IMAGINATION.  175 

or  a  solitary  voice  in  a  bower,  singing  for  an  expected  lover ;  or 
the  chapel  organ,  waking  up  like  the  fountain  of  the  winds. 
Let  a  poet  go  through  the  grounds,  and  he  will  heighten  and 
increase  all  these  sounds  and  images.  He  will  bring  the  colors 
from  heaven,  and  put  an  unearthly  meaning  into  the  voice. 
He  will  have  stories  of  the  sylvan  inhabitants;  will  shift  the 
population  through  infinite  varieties ;  will  put  a  sentiment  upon 
every  sight  and  sound  ;  will  be  human,  romantic,  supernatural  j 
will  make  all  nature  send  tribute  into  that  spot. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures 
While  the  landskip  round  it  measures ; 
Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  grey. 
Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray  ; 
Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  laboring  clouds  do  often  rest ; 
Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied. 
Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide. 
Towers  and  battlements  it  sees, 
Bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees, 
Where  perhaps  some  Beauty  lies, 
The  Cynosure  of  neighboring  eyes. 

But  not  to  go  on  quoting  lines  which  are  ever  in  people's 
mouths  like  a  popular  tune,  take  a  passage  from  the  same  poet 
less  familiar  to  one's  every-day  recollections.  It  is  in  his  Ar- 
cadian Masque,  which  was  performed  by  some  of  the  Derby 
family  at  their  seat  at  Harefield,  near  Uxbridge.  The  Genius 
of  the  place,  meeting  the  noble  shepherds  and  shepherdesses, 
accosts  them : — 

Stay,  gentle  swains,  for  though  in  this  disguise, 
I  see  bright  honor  sparkle  through  your  eyes  ; 
Of  famous  Arcady  ye  are,  and  sprung 
Of  that  renowned  flood,  so  often  sung, 
Divine  Alpheus,  who  by  secret  sluice 
Stole  under  seas  to  meet  his  Arethuse; 
And  ye,  the  breathing  roses  of  the  wood. 
Fair  silver-buskin'd  Nymphs,  as  great  and  good; 
I  know  this  quest  of  yours,  and  free  intent. 
Was  all  in  honor  and  devotion  meant 
To  the  great  mistress  of  yon  princely  shrine, 
10 


t%  THE  INDICATOR,  [chap,  xxxi 

Whom  with  low  reverence  I  adore  as  mine ; 
And  with  all  helpful  service  will  comply 
To  further  this  night's  glad  solemnity ; 
And  lead  ye  where  ye  may  more  near  behold 
What  shallow-searching  Fame  hath  left  untold ; 
Which  I,  full  oft,  amidst  these  shades  alone. 
Have  sat  to  wonder  at,  and  gaze  upon  : 
For  know,  by  lot  from  Jove  I  am  the  Power 
Of  this  fair  wood,  and  live  in  oaken  bower, 
To  nurse  the  saplings  tall,  and  curl  the  grove 
In  ringlets  quaint  and  wanton  windings  wove : 
And  all  my  plants  I  save  from  nightly  ill 
Of  noisome  winds,  and  blasting  vapors  chill ; 
And  from  tlie  boughs  brush  off  the  evil  dew. 
And  heal  the  arms  of  thwarting  thunder  blue, 
Or  what  the  cross  dire-looking  planet  smites, 
Or  liurtful  worm  with  canker'd  venom  bites. 
When  evening  grey  doth  rise,  I  fetch  my  round 
Over  the  mount,  and  all  this  hallow'd  ground ; 
And  early,  ere  the  odorous  breath  of  morn 
Awakes  the  slumbering  leaves,  or  tassel'd  horn 
Shakes  the  high  thicket,  haste  I  all  about. 
Number  my  ranks,  and  visit  every  sprout 
With  puissant  words  and  murmurs  made  to  bless. 
But  else,  in  deep  of  night,  when  drowsiness 
Hath  locked  up  mortal  sense,  then  listen  I 
To  the  celestial  Syrens'  harmony, 
That  sit  upon  the  nine  infolded  spheres. 
And  sing  to  those  that  hold  the  vital  shears, 
And  turn  the  adamantine  spindle  round. 
On  which  the  fate  of  gods  and  men  is  wound. 
Such  sweet  compulsion  doth  in  music  lie, 
To  lull  the  daughters  of  Necessity, 
And  keep  unsteady  Nature  to  her  law. 
And  the  low  world  in  measured  motion  draw. 
After  tne  heavenly  tune,  which  none  can  hear 
Of  human  mould,  with  gross  unpurged  ear. 

'•  Milton's  Genius  of  the  Grove,"  says  Warton,  "  being  a  spirit 
sent  from  Jove,  and  commissioned  from  heaven  to  exercise  a 
prelarnatural  guardianship  over  the  '  saplings  tall,'  to  avert 
every  noxious  influence,  and  '  to  visit  every  sprout  with  puissant 
words,  and  murmurs  made  to  bless,'  had  the  privilege,  not  in- 
dulged to  gross  mortals,  of  hearing  the  celestial  syrens'  harmony, 


CHAP.  XXXI.]     ON  THE  REALITIES  OF  IMAGIlNiATION.  177 

This  enjoyment,"  continues  the  critic,  in  the  spirit  of  a  true 
reader,  luxuriating  over  a  beautiful  thought,  "  this  enjoyment, 
which  is  highly  imagined,  was  a  relaxation  from  the  duties  of 
his  peculiar  charge,  in  the  depth  of  midnight,  when  the  world  is 
locked  up  in  sleep  and  silence."*  The  music  of  the  spheres  is 
the  old  Platonic  or  Pythagorean  doctrine ;  but  it  remained  for 
Milton  to  render  it  a  particular  midnight  recreation  to  "  purged 
ears,"  after  the  earthly  toils  of  the  day.  And  we  partake  of  it 
with  the  Genius.  We  may  say  of  the  love  of  nature,  what 
Shakspeare  says  of  another  love,  that  it 

Adds  a  precious  seeing  to  the  eye. 

And  we  may  say  also,  upon  the  like  principle,  that  it  adds  a  precious 
hearing  to  the  ear.  This  and  imagination,  which  ever  follows 
upon  it,  are  the  two  purifiers  of  our  sense,  which  rescue  us  frona 
the  deafening  babble  of  common  cares,  and  enable  us  to  hear 
all  the  affectionate  voices  of  earth  and  heaven.  The  starry 
orbs,  lapsing  about  in  their  smooth  and  sparkling  dance,  sing  to 
us.  The  brooks  talk  to  us  of  solitude.  The  birds  are  the 
animal  spirits  of  nature,  carolling  in  the  air,  like  a  careless 
lass. 

The  gentle  gales. 
Fanning  their  odoriferous  wings,  dispense 
Native  perfumes ;  and  whisper  whence  they  stole 
Those  balmy  spoils. — Paradise  Lost,  Book  iv. 

The  poets  are  called  creators  (noojrat.  Makers)  because  with  their 
magical  words  they  bring  forth  to  our  eyesight  the  abundant 
images  and  beauties  of  creation.  They  put  them  there,  if  the 
reader  pleases ;  and  so  are  literally  creators.  But  whether  put 
there  or  discovered,  whether  created  or  invented  (for  invention 

•  If  the  reader  wishes  to  indulge  himself  in  a  volume  full  of  sheer  poetry 
with  a  pleasant  companion,  familiar  with  the  finest  haunts  of  the  Muses,  he 
cannot  do  better  than  get  Warton's  Edition  of  the  Minor  Poems  of 
Milton.  The  principal  notes  have  been  transferred  by  Mr.  Todd  to  tlie 
sixth  volume  of  his  own  valuable  edition  of  Milton's  Poetical  Works 
but  it  is  better  to  have  a  good  thing  entire. 


178  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxxi. 

means  noti.ing  but  finding  out),  there  they  are.  If  they  touch 
us,  they  exist  to  as  much  purpose  as  anything  else  which  touches 
us.  If  a  passage  in  King  Lear  brings  the  tears  into  our  eyes, 
it  is  real  as  the  touch  of  a  sorrowful  hand.  If  the  flow  of  a 
song  of  Anacreon's  intoxicates  us,  it  is  as  true  to  a  pulse  within 
us  as  the  wine  he  drank.  We  hear  not  their  sounds  with  ears, 
nor  see  their  sights  with  eyes ;  but  we  hear  and  see  both  so 
truly,  that  we  are  moved  with  pleasure ;  and  the  advantage, 
nay  even  the  test,  of  seeing  and  hearing,  at  any  time,  is  not  in 
the  seeing  and  hearing,  but  in  the  ideas  we  realize,  and  the 
pleasure  we  derive.  Intellectual  objects,  therefore,  inasmuch 
as  they  come  home  to  us,  are  as  true  a  part  of  the  stock  of 
nature,  as  visible  ones ;  and  they  are  infinitely  more  abundant. 
Between  the  tree  of  a  country  clown  and  the  tree  of  a  Milton  or 
Spenser,  what  a  difference  in  point  of  productiveness !  Between 
the  plodding  of  a  sexton  through  a  church-yard,  and  the  walk 
of  a  Gray,  what  a  difference  !  What  a  difference  between  the 
Bermudas  of  a  ship-builder  and  the  Bermoothes  of  Shakspeare ! 
the  isle 

Full  of  noises. 
Sounds,  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight,  and  hurt  not ; 

the  isle  of  elves  and  fairies,  that  chased  the  tide  to  and  fro  on 
the  sea-shore ;  of  coral-bones  and  the  knell  of  sea-nymphs :  of 
spirits  dancing  on  the  sands,  and  singing  amidst  the  hushes  of 
the  wind ;  of  Caliban,  whose  brute  nature  enchantment  had 
made  poetical ;  of  Ariel,  who  lay  in  cowslip  bells,  and  rode 
upon  the  bat ;  of  Miranda,  who  wept  when  she  saw  Ferdinand 
work  so  hard,  and  begged  him  to  let  her  help ;  telling  him, 

I  am  your  wife,  if  you  will  marry  me ; 
If  not,  I'll  die  your  maid.     To  be  your  fellow    ■ 
You  may  deny  me  ;  but  I'll  be  your  servant. 
Whether  you  will  or  no. 

Such  are  the  discoveries  which  the  poets  make  for  us :  worlds, 
to  which  that  of  Columbus  was  but  a  handful  of  brute  matter. 
America  began  to  be  richer  for  us  the  other  day,  when  Hum. 


CHAP.  XXXI.]     ON  THE  REALITIES  OF  IMAGINATION.  119 

boldi  came  back  and  told  us  of  its  luxuriant  and  gigantic  vegeta- 
tion;  of  the  myriads  of  shooting  lights,  which  revel  at  evening 
in  th«  southern  sky ;  and  of  that  grand  constellation  at  which 
Dante  seems  to  have  made  so  remarkable  a  guess  (Purgatorio, 
Cant,  i.,  V.  22).  The  natural  warmth  of  the  Mexican  and 
Peruvian  genius,  set  free  from  despotism,  will  soon  do  all  the 
rest  for  it ;  awaken  the  sleeping  riches  of  its  eye-sight,  and  3al] 
forth  the  glad  music  of  its  affections. 

To  return  to  our  parks  or  landscapes,  and  what  the  poets  can 
make  of  them.  It  is  not  improbable  that  Milton,  by  his  Genius 
of  the  Grove  at  Harefield,  covertly  intended  himself.  He  had 
been  applied  to  by  the  Derbys  to  write  some  holiday  poetry  tor 
them.  He  puts  his  consent  in  the  mouth  of  the  Genius,  whose 
hand,  he  says,  curls  the  ringlets  of  the  grove,  and  who  refreshes 
himself  at  midnight  with  listening  to  the  music  of  the  spheres  ; 
that  is  to  say,  whose  hand  confers  nev/  beauty  on  it  by  its  touch, 
and  who  has  pleasure  in  .solitude  far  richer  and  loftier  than  those 
of  mere  patrician  mortals. 

See  how  finely  Ben  Jonson  enlivens  his  description  of  Pens- 
hurst,  the  family-seat  of  the  Sydneys  :  now  with  the  creations 
of  classical  mythology,  and  now  with  the  rural  manners  of  the 
time. 

Thou  art  not,  Penshurst,  built  to  envious  show, 

Or  touch,  of  marble  ;  nor  canst  boast  a  row 

Of  polished  pillars,  or  a  roof  of  gold  ; 

Thou  hast  no  lantern,  whereof  tales  are  told  : 

Or  stairs,  or  courts  ;  but  stand's!  an  ancient  pile: 

And  these,  grudged  at,  are  reverenced  the  while. 

Thou  joy'st  in  better  marks,  of  soil,  of  air, 

Of  wood,  of  water  :   therein  thou  art  fair. 

Thou  hast  thy  walks  for  health,  as  well  as  sport; 

Thy  mount,  to  which  the  Dryads  do  resort ; 

Where  Pan  and  Bacchus  their  high  feasts  have  made. 

Beneath  the  broad  beech,  and  the  chestnut  shade; 

That  taller  tree,  which  of  a  nut  was  set 

At  his  great  birth,  where  all  the  Muses  met.* 

There,  in  the  writhed  bark,  are  cut  the  names 

Of  many  a  S  Ivan,  taken  with  his  flame? : 

?  Sic  P'i'i'P  Sydney. 
16* 


ly  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxxi 

And  thence  the  ruddy  Satyrs  oft  provoke 
The  lighter  fawns  to  reach  thy  lady's  oak. 
Thy  copse  too,  named  of  Gamage,  thou  hast  there. 
That  never  fails  to  serve  thee  seasoned  deer. 
When  thou  wv.aldst  feast,  or  exercise  thy  friends. 
The  lower  land,  that  to  the  river  bends, 
Thy  sheep,  thy  bullocks,  kine,  and  calves  do  feed , 
The  middle  grounds  thy  mares  and  horses  breed: 
Each  bank  doth  yield  thee  conies  ;  and  thy  tops 
Fertile  of  wood.  Ashore  and  Sydney  copse. 
To  crown, — thy  open  table  doth  provide 
The  purple  pheasant  with  the  speckled  side. 
****** 

Then  hath  thy  orchard  fruit,  thy  garden  flowers. 

Fresh  as  the  air,  and  new  as  are  the  hours. 

The  early  cherry,  with  the  later  plum. 

Fig,  grape,  and  quince,  each  in  his  time  doth  come 

The  blushing  apricot,  and  woolly  peach. 

Hang  on  thy  walls,  that  every  child  may  reach  : 

And  though  thy  walls  be  of  the  country  stone. 

They're  rear'd  with  no  man's  ruin,  no  man's  groan ; 

There's  none  that  dwell  about  them  wish  them  dowr. 

But  all  come  in,  the  farmer  and  the  clown. 

And  no  one  empty-handed,  to  salute 

Thy  lord  and  lady,  though  they  have  no  suit. 

Some  bring  a  capon,  some  a  rural  cake, 

Some  nuts,  some  apples ;  some  that  think  they  make 

The  better  cheeses,  bring  'em ;  or  else  send 

By  their  ripe  daughters,  whom  they  would  commer  d 

This  way  to  husbands;  and  whose  baskets  bear 

An  emblem  of  themselves  in  plum  or  pear. 

Imagination  enriches  everything.     A  great  library  contains 
not  only  books,  but 

The  assembled  souls  of  all  that  men  held  wise. 

Davenant. 

The  moon  is  Homer's  and  Shakspeare's  moon,  as  well  as  the 
one  we  look  at.  The  sun  comes  out  of  his  chamber  in  the  east, 
with  a  sparkling  eye,  "  rejoicing  like  a  bridegroom."  The 
commonest  thing  becomes  like  Aaron's  rod,  that  budded.  Pope 
called  up  the  spirits  of  the  Cabala  to  wait  upon  a  lock  of  hair, 
and  justly  gave  it  the  honors  of  a  constellation  ;  for  he  has  hung 
it,  sparkling  for  ever,  in  the  eyes  of  posterity.     A  common  mea- 


CHAP.  XXXI.]     CN  THE  REALITIES  OF  IMAGINATION.  ISl 

dow  IS  a  sorry  thing  to  a  ditcher  or  a  coxcomb;  but  by  the  help 
of  its  dues  from  imagination  and  the  love  of  nature,  the  grass 
brightens  for  us,  the  air  soothes  us,  we  feel  as  we  did  in  the 
daisied  hours  of  childhood.  Its  verdures,  its  sheep,  its  hedge- 
row elms, — all  these,  and  all  else  which  sight,  and  sound,  and 
associations  can  give  it,  are  made  to  furnish  a  treasure  of 
pleasant  thoughts.  Even  brick  and  mortar  are  vivified,  as  of 
old,  at  the  harp  of  Orpheus.  A  metropolis  becomes  no  longer 
a  mere  collection  of  houses  or  of  trades.  It  puts  on  all  the 
grandeur  of  its  history,  and  its  literature  ;  its  towers,  and  rivers ; 
its  art,  and  jewellery,  and  foreign  wealth ;  its  multitude  of 
human  beings  all  intent  upon  excitement,  wise  or  yet  to  learn  ; 
the  huge  and  sullen  dignity  of  its  canopy  of  smoke  by  day  ;  the 
wide  gleam  upwards  of  its  lighted  lustre  at  night-time  ;  and  the 
noise  of  its  many  chariots,  heard  at  the  same  hour,  when  the 
wind  sets  gently  towards  some  quiet  suburb. 


J  82  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxxi 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

Deaths  of  Little  Children. 

A  Grecian  philosopher  being  asked  why  he  wept  for  the  death 
of  his  son,  since  the  sorrow  was  in  vain,  replied,  "  1  weep  on 
that  account."  And  his  answer  became  his  wisdom.  It  is  only 
for  sophists  to  contend,  that  we,  whose  eyes  contain  the  fountains 
of  tears,  need  never  give  way  to  them.  It  would  be  unwise  not 
to  do  so  on  some  occasions.  Sorrow  unlocks  them  in  her  balmy 
moods.  The  first  bursts  may  be  bitter  and  overwhelming ;  but 
the  soil  on  which  they  pour,  would  be  worse  without  them. 
They  refresh  the  fever  of  the  soul — the  dry  misery  which 
parches  the  countenance  into  furrows,  and  renders  us  liable  to 
our  most  terrible  "  flesh-quakes." 

There  are  sorrows,  it  is  true,  so  great,  that  to  give  them  some 
of  the  ordinary  vents  is  to  run  a  hazard  of  being  overthrown. 
These  we  must  rather  strengthen  ourselves  to  resist,  or  bow 
quietly  and  drily  down,  in  order  to  let  them  pass  over  us,  as  the 
traveller  does  the  wind  of  the  desert.  But  where  we  feel  that 
tears  would  relieve  us,  it  is  false  philosophy  to  deny  ourselves 
at  least  that  first  refreshment ;  and  it  is  always  false  consolation 
to  tell  people  that  because  they  cannot  help  a  thing,  they  are 
not  to  mind  it.  The  true  way  is,  to  let  them  grapple  with  the 
unavoidable  sorrow,  and  try  to  win  it  into  gentleness  by  a 
reasonable  yielding.  There  are  griefs  so  gentle  in  their  very 
nature,  that  it  would  be  worse  than  false  heroism  to  refuse  them 
a  tear.  Of  this  kind  are  the  deaths  of  infants.  Particular 
circumstances  may  render  it  more  or  less  advisable  to  indulge 
in  grief  for  the  loss  of  a  little  child ;  but,  in  general,  parents 
should  be  no  more  advised  to  repress  their  first  tears  on  such 
an  occasion,  than  to  repress  their  smiles  towards  a  child  surviving, 
or  to  indulge  in  any  other  sympathy.  It  is  an  appeal  to  the  same 
gentle  tenderness :  and  such  appeals  are  never  made  in  vain. 
The  end  of  them  is  an  acquittal  from  the  harsher  bonds  of  affliction 
— from  the  tying  down  of  the  spirit  to  one  melancholy  idea. 


CHAP.  XXXII.]      DEATHS  OF  LITTLE  CHL.DREN.  1S3 

It  is  the  nature  of  tears  of  this  kind,  nowever  strongly  tney 
may  gush  forth,  to  run  into  quiet  waters  at  last.  We  cannol 
easily,  for  the  whole  course  of  our  lives,  think  with  pain  of  any 
good  and  kind  person  whom  we  have  lost.  It  is  the  divine 
nature  of  their  qualities  to  conquer  pain  and  dcaih  itself:  to 
turn  the  memory  of  them  into  pleasure  ;  to  survive  with  a  placid 
aspect  in  our  imaginations.  We  are  writing  at  this  moment 
just  opposite  a  spot  which  contains  the  grave  of  one  inexpressi- 
bly dear  to  us.  We  see  from  our  window  the  trees  about  it,  and 
the  church  spire.  The  green  fields  lie  around.  The  clouds 
are  travelling  over-head,  alternately  taking  away  the  sunshine 
and  restoring  it.  The  vernal  winds,  piping  of  the  flowery  sum- 
mer-time, are  nevertheless  calling  to  mind  the  far-distant  and 
dangerous  ocean,  which  the  heart  that  lies  in  that  grave  had 
many  reasons  to  think  of.  And  yet  the  sight  of  this  spot  does 
not  give  us  pain.  So  far  from  it,  it  is  the  e.xistence  of  that  grave 
which  doubles  every  charm  of  the  spot  ;  which  links  the  plea- 
sures of  our  childhood  and  manhood  together  ;  which  puts  a 
hushing  tenderness  in  the  winds,  and  a  patient  joy  upon  the 
landscape  ;  which  seems  to  unite  heaven  and  earth,  mortality 
and  immortality,  the  grass  of  the  tomb  and  the  grass  of  the  green 
field  :  and  gives  a  more  maternal  aspect  to  the  whole  kindness  of 
nature.  It  does  not  hinder  gaiety  itself.  Happiness  was  what 
its  tenant,  through  all  her  troubles,  would  have  diffused.  To 
diffuse  happiness  and  to  enjoy  it,  is  not  only  carrying  on  her 
wishes,  but  realizing  her  hopes ;  and  gaiety,  freed  from  its  only 
pollutions,  malignity  and  want  of  sympathy,  is  but  a  child  play, 
ing  about  the  knees  of  its  mother. 

The  remembered  innocence  and  endearments  of  a  child  stand 
us  instead  of  virtues  that  have  died  older.  Children  have  not 
exercised  the  voluntary  offices  of  friendship ;  they  have  not 
chosen  to  be  kind  and  good  to  us  ;  nor  stood  by  us,  from  con- 
scious will,  in  the  hour  of  adversity.  But  they  have  shared 
their  pleasures  and  pains  with  us  as  well  as  they  could  ;  the 
interchange  of  good  offices  between  us  has,  of  necessity,  been 
less  mingled  with  the  troubles  of  the  world  ;  the  sorrow  arising 
from  their  death  is  the  only  one  which  we  can  associate  with 
their  memories.     These   are  happy  thoughts   that  cannot   die. 


15r4  THE  INDICATOR.  (.chap,  xxxii 

Our  loss  may  always  render  them  pensive ;  but  they  will  not 
always  be  painful.  It  is  a  part  of  the  benignity  of  Nature  that 
pain  does  not  survive  like  pleasure,  at  any  time,  much  less 
where  the  cause  of  it  is  an  innocent  one.  The  smile  will 
remain  reflected  by  memory,  as  the  moon  reflects  the  light  upon 
us  when  the  sun  has  gone  into  heaven. 

When  writers  like  ourselves  quarrel  with  earthly  pain  (we 
mean  writers  of  the  same  intentions,  without  implying,  of  course, 
anything  about  abilities  or  otherwise),  they  are  misunderstood, 
if  they  are  supposed  to  quarrel  with  pains  of  every  sort.  This 
would  be  idle  and  efieminate.  They  do  not  pretend,  indeed,  that 
humanity  might  not  wish,  if  it  could,  to  be  entirely  free  from 
pain  :  for  it  endeavors,  at  all  times,  to  turn  pain  into  pleasure  : 
or  at  least  to  set  off  the  one  with  the  other,  to  make  the  former 
a  zest  and  the  latter  a  refreshment.  The  most  unaffected  dig- 
nity of  suffering  does  this,  and,  if  wise,  acknowledges  it.  The 
greatest  benevolence  towards  others,  the  most  unselfish  relish  of 
their  pleasures,  even  at  its  own  expense,  does  but  look  to 
increasing  the  general  stock  of  happiness,  though  content,  if  it 
could,  to  have  its  identity  swallowed  up  in  that  splendid  contem- 
plation. We  are  far  from  meaning  that  this  is  to  be  called  self- 
ishness. We  are  far,  indeed,  from  thinking  so,  or  of  so  con- 
founding words.  But  neither  is  it  to  be  called  pain  when  most 
unselfish,  if  disinterestedness  be  truly  understood.  The  pain 
that  is  in  it  softens  into  pleasure,  as  the  darker  hue  of  the  rain- 
bow melts  into  the  brighter.  Yet  even  if  a  harsher  line  is  to  be 
drawn  between  the  pain  and  pleasure  of  the  most  unselfish  mind 
(and  ill-health,  for  instance,  may  draw  it),  we  should  not  quar- 
rel with  it  if  it  contributed  to  the  general  mass  of  comfort,  and 
were  of  a  nature  which  general  kindliness  could  not  avoid. 
Made  as  we  are,  there  are  certain  pains  without  which  it  would 
be  difficult  to  conceive  certain  great  and  overbalancing  plea- 
sures. We  may  conceive  it  possible  for  beings  to  be  made 
entirely  happy  ;  but  in  our  composition  something  of  pain  seems 
to  be  a  necessary  ingredient,  in  order  that  the  materials  may 
turn  to  as  fine  account  as  possible,  though  our  clay,  in  the 
course  of  ages  and  experience,  may  be  refined  more  and  more. 
We  may  get  rid  of  the  worst  earth,  though  not  of  earth  itself. 


CHAP.  XXXII.]      DEATHS  OF  LITTLE  CHILDREN  185 

Now  the  liability  to  the  loss  of  children — or  rather  what  ren- 
ders  us  sensible  of  it,  the  occasional  loss  itself — seems  to  be  one 
of  these  necessary  bitters  thrown  into  the  cup  of  humanity.  We 
do  not  mean  that  every  one  must  lose  one  of  his  children  in  order 
to  enjoy  the  rest ;  or  that  every  individual  loss  afflicts  us  in  the 
same  proportion.  We  allude  to  the  deaths  of  infants  in  general. 
These  might  be  as  few  as  we  could  render  them.  But  if  none 
at  all  ever  took  place,  we  should  regard  every  little  child  as  a 
man  or  woman  secured ;  and  it  will  easily  be  conceived  what  a 
world  of  endearing  cares  and  hopes  this  security  would  endan- 
ger. The  very  idea  of  infancy  would  lose  its  continuity  with 
us.  Girls  and  boys  would  be  future  men  and  women,  not  pre- 
sent children.  They  would  have  attained  their  full  growth  in 
our  imaginations,  and  might  as  well  have  been  men  and  women 
at  once.  On  the  other  hand,  those  who  have  lost  an  infant,  are 
never,  as  it  were,  without  an  infant  child.  They  are  the  only 
persons  who,  in  one  sense,  retain  it  always,  and  they  furnish  their 
neighbors  with  the  same  idea.*  The  other  children  grow  up  to 
manhood  and  womanhood,  and  suffer  all  the  changes  of  mortal- 
ity. This  one  alone  is  rendered  an  immortal  child.  Death  has 
arrested  it  with  his  kindly  harshness,  and  blessed  it  into  an  eter- 
nal image  of  youth  and  innocence. 

Of  such  as  these  are  the  pleasantest  shapes  that  visit  our  fan- 
cy and  hopes.  They  are  the  ever-smiling  emblems  of  joy  ;  the 
prettiest  pages  that  wait  upon  imagination.  Lastly,  "  Of  these 
are  the  kingdom  of  heaven."  Wherever  there  is  a  province  of 
that  benevolent  and  all-accessible  empire,  whether  on  earth  or 
elsewhere,  such  are  the  gentle  spirits  that  must  inhabit  it.  To 
such  simplicity,  or  the  resemblance  of  it,  must  they  come.  Such 
must  be  the  ready  confidence  of  their  hearts,  and  creativeness  of 
their  fancy.  And  so  ignorant  must  they  be  of  the  "  knowledge 
of  good  and  evil,"  losing  their  discernment  of  that  self-created 
trouble,  by  enjoying  the  garden  before  them,  and  not  being 
ashamed  of  what  is  kindly  and  innocent. 

"  I  sighed,"  says  old  Captain  Dalton,  '•  when  I  envied  you  the  two  bonnie 
children  ;  but  I  sigh  not  now  to  call  either  the  monk  or  the  soldier  mine 
own. — Monastery,  vol.  iii-    p.  341. 


186  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxxin 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

Poetical  Anomalies  of  Shape. 

It  is  not  one  of  the  least  instances  of  the  force  of  habit  to  see 
how  poetry  and  mythology  can  reconcile  us  to  shapes,  or  rather 
combinations  of  shape,  unlike  anything  in  nature.  The  dog- 
headed  deities  of  the  Egyptians  were  doubtless  not  so  monstrous 
in  their  eyes  as  in  ours.  The  Centaurs  of  the  Greeks,  as  Ovid 
has  shown  us,  could  be  imagined  possessing  beauty  enough  for  a 
human  love  story  ;  and  our  imaginations  find  nothing  at  all 
monstrous  in  the  idea  of  an  angel,  though  it  partakes  of  the  na- 
ture of  the  bird.  The  angel,  it  is  true,  is  the  least  departure 
from  humanity.  Its  wings  are  not  an  alteration  of  the  human 
shape,  but  an  addition  to  it.  Yet,  leaving  a  more  awful  wonder 
out  of  the  question,  we  should  be  startled  to  find  pinions  growing 
out  of  the  shoulder-blades  of  a  child  ;  and  we  should  wait  with 
anxiety  to  see  of  what  nature  the  pinions  were,  till  we  became 
reconciled  to  them.  If  they  turned  out  to  be  ribbed  and  webbed, 
like  those  of  the  imaginary  dragon,  conceive  the  horror  !  If,  on 
the  other  hand,  they  became  feathers,  and  tapered  off,  like  those 
of  a  gigantic  bird,  combining  also  grace  and  splendor,  as  well 
as  the  power  of  flight,  we  can  hardly  fancy  ourselves  reconcileo 
to  them.  And  yet  again,  on  the  other  hand,  the  flying  women, 
described  in  the  Adventures  of  Peter  Wilkins,  do  not  shock  us, 
though  their  wings  partake  of  the  ribbed  and  webbed  nature, 
and  not  at  all  of  the  feathered.  We  admire  Peter's  gentle  and 
beautiful  bride,  notwithstanding  the  phenomenon  of  the  graundee, 
its  light  whalebone-like  intersections,  and  its  power  of  dropping 
about  her  like  drapery.  It  even  becomes  a  matter  of  pleasant 
curiosity.  We  find  it  not  at  all  in  the  way.  We  can  readily 
apprehend  the  delight  he  felt  at  possessing  a  creature  so  kind 


CHAP,  xxxiii.]     POETICAL  ANOMALIES  OF  SHAPE.  187 

and  sensitive  ;  and  can  sympatiiize  with  him  in  the  happiness  of 
that  bridal  evening,  equally  removed  from  prudery  and  gross- 
ness,  which  he  describes  with  a  mixture  of  sentiment  and  volup- 
tuousness beyond  all  the  bridals  we  ever  read. 

To  imagine  anything  like  a  sympathy  of  this  kind,  it  is  oi 
course  necessary  that  the  difference  of  form  should  consist  in 
addition,  and  not  in  alteration.  But  the  un-angel-like  texture 
of  the  flying  apparatus  of  fair  Youwarkee  (such,  if  we  remem- 
ber, is  her  name)  helps  to  show  us  the  main  reason  why  we  are 
able  to  receive  pleasure  from  the  histories  of  creatures  only  half- 
human.  The  habit  of  reading  prevents  the  first  shock  ;  but  we 
are  reconciled  in  proportion  to  their  possession  of  what  we  are 
pleased  to  call  human  qualities.  Kindness  is  the  great  elevator. 
The  Centaurs  may  have  killed  all  the  Lapithse,  and  shown  con- 
siderable generalship  to  boot,  without  reconciling  us  to  the  brute 
part  of  them ;  but  the  brutality  melts  away  before  the  story  of 
their  two  lovers  in  Ovid.  Drunkenness  and  rapine  made  beasts 
of  them  ; — sentiment  makes  human  beings.  Polyphemus  in 
Homer  is  a  shocking  monster,  not  because  he  has  only  one  eye, 
but  because  he  murders  and  eats  our  fellow-creatures.  But  in 
Theocritus,  where  he  is  Galatea's  lover,  and  sits  hopelessly  la- 
menting his  passion,  we  only  pity  him.  His  deformity  even  in- 
creases our  pity.  We  blink  the  question  of  beauty,  and  become 
one-eyed  for  his  sake.  Nature  seems  to  do  him  an  injustice  in 
gifting  him  with  sympathies  so  human,  and  at  the  same  time 
prevent  them  from  being  answered  ;  and  we  feel  impatient  with 
the  all-beautiful  Galatea,  if  we  think  she  ever  showed  him  scorn 
as  well  as  unwillingness.  We  insist  upon  her  avoiding  him  with 
the  greatest  possible  respect. 

These  fictions  of  the  poets,  therefore,  besides  the  mere  excite- 
ment which  they  give  the  imagination,  assist  remotely  to  break 
the  averseness  and  uncharitableness  of  human  pride.  And  they 
may  blunt  the  point  of  some  fancies  that  are  apt  to  come  upon 
melancholy  minds.  When  ^r  Thomas  Brown,  in  the  infinite 
range  of  his  metaphysical  optics,  turned  his  glass,  as  he  no 
doubt  often  did,  towards  the  inhabitants  of  other  worlds,  the  sto- 
ries  of  angels  and  Centaurs  would  help  his  imaginative  good- 

17 


188  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxxiu 

nature  to  a  more  willing  conception  of  creatures  in  other  planets 
unlike  those  on  earth  :  to  other  "  lords  of  creation  ;"  and  other, 
and  perhaps  nobler  humanities,  noble  in  spirit,  though  different 
in  form.  If  indeed  there  can  be  anything  in  the  starry  end- 
lessness of  existence,  nobler  than  what  we  can  conceive  of  love 
ind  generosity. 


JHAP.  XXXIV.]  SPRING  AND  DAISIES.  ISO 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Spring  and  Daisies. 

Sfring,  while  we  are  writing,  is  complete.  The  winds  have  done 
their  work.  The  shaken  air,  well  tempered  and  equalised,  has 
S'Ubsided  ;  the  genial  rains,  however  thickly  they  may  come,  do 
not  saturate  the  ground,  beyond  the  power  of  the  sun  to  dry  it 
up  again.  There  are  clear  crystal  mornings ;  noons  of  blue 
sky  and  white  cloud  ;  nights,  in  which  the  growing  moon  beems 
to  lie  looking  at  the  stars,  like  a  young  shepherdess  at  her  flock. 
A  few  days  ago  she  lay  gazing  in  this  manner  at  the  solitary 
evening  star,  like  Diana,  on  the  slope  of  a  valley,  looking  up  at 
Endymion.  His  young  eye  seemed  to  sparkle  out  upon  the 
world  ;  while  she,  bending  inwards,  her  hands  behind  her  head, 
watched  him  with  an  enamored  dumbness. 

But  this  is  the  quiet  of  Spring.  Its  voices  and  swift  move- 
ments have  come  back  also.  The  swallow  shoots  by  us,  like  an 
embodied  ardor  of  the  season.  The  glowing  bee  has  his  will  of 
the  honied  flowers,  grappling  with  them  as  they  tremble.  We 
nave  not  yet  heard  the  nightingale  or  the  cuckoo ;  but  we  can 
hear  them  with  our  imagination,  and  enjoy  them  through  the 
content  of  those  who  have. 

Then  the  young  green.  This  is  the  most  apt  and  perfect 
mark  of  the  season, — the  true  issuing  forth  of  the  Spring.  The 
trees  and  bushes  are  putting  forth  their  crisp  fans  ;  the  lilac  is 
loaded  with  bud  ;  the  meadows  are  thick  with  the  bright  young 
grass,  running  into  sweeps  of  white  and  gold  with  the  daisies  and 
buttercups.  The  orchards  announce  their  riches,  in  a  shower 
of  silver  blossoms.  The  earth  in  fertile  woods  is  spread  with 
yellow  and  blue  carpets  of  primroses,  violets,  and  hyacinths. 
over  which  the  birch-trees,  like  stooping  nymphs,  hang  witii  their 
thickening  hair.     Lilies-of-the-valley,  stocks,  columbines,  ladv- 


193  THE  INDICATOR.  chap,  xxxiv. 

smocks,  and  the  intensely  reil  piony  which  seems  to  anticipate 
the  full  glow  of  summer-time,  all  come  out  to  wait  upon  the  sea- 
son,  like  fairies  from  their  subterraneous  palaces. 

Who  is  to  wonder  that  the  idea  of  love  mingles  itself  with  that 
of  this  cheerful  and  kind  time  of  the  year,  setting  aside  even 
common  associations  ?  It  is  not  only  its  youth,  and  beauty,  and 
budding  life,  and  the  "  passion  of  the  groves,"  that  exclaim  with 
the  poet, 

Let  those  love  now,  who  never  loved  before ; 
And  those  who  always  loved,  now  love  the  more.* 

All  our  kindly  impulses  are  apt  to  have  more  sentiment  in  them, 
than  the  world  suspect ;  and  it  is  by  fetching  out  this  sentiment, 
and  making  it  the  ruling  association,  that  we  exalt  the  impulse 
into  generosity  and  refinement,  instead  of  degrading  it,  as  is  too 
much  the  case,  into  what  is  selfish,  and  coarse,  and  pollutes  all 
our  systems.  One  of  the  greatest  inspirers  of  love  is  gratitude, — 
not  merely  on  its  common  grounds,  but  gratitude  for  pleasures, 
whether  consciously  or  unconsciously  conferred.  Thus  we  are 
thankful  for  the  delight  given  us  by  a  kind  and  sincere  face; 
and  if  we  fall  in  love  with  it,  one  great  reason  is,  that  we  long 
to  return  what  we  have  received  The  same  feeling  has  a  con- 
siderable influence  in  the  love  that  has  been  felt  for  men  of 
talents,  whose  person  or  address  have  not  been  much  calculated 
to  inspire  it.  In  spring-time  joy  awakens  the  heart ;  with  joy, 
awakes  gratitude  and  nature ;  and  in  our  gratitude,  we  return, 
on  its  own  principle  of  participation,  the  love  that  has  been  shown 
us. 

This  association  of  ideas  renders  solitude  in  spring,  and  soli- 
tude in  winter,  two  very  different  things.  In  the  latter,  we  are 
better  content  to  bear  the  feelings  of  the  season  by  ourselves  :  in 
the  former  they  are  so  sweet  as  well  as  so  overflowing,  that  we 
long  to  share  them.  Shakspeare,  in  one  of  his  sonnets,  describes 
himself  as  so  identifying  the  beauties  of  the  Spring  with  the 
thought  of  his  absent  mistress,  that  he  says  he  forgot  them  in 
heir  own  character,  and    played  with  them  only  as  with   her 

•  Pervigilium  Veneris — Farnell's  translation. 


CHAP.  XKxiv.]  SPRING  AND  DAISIES.  191 

shadow.  See  how  exquisitely  he  turns  a  common-place  into  this 
fancy ;  and  what  a  noble  brief  portrait  of  April  he  gives  us  at 
the  beginning.  There  is  indeed  a  wonderful  mixture  of  softness 
and  strength  in  almost  every  one  of  the  lines. 

From  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring 

When  proud-pied  April,  dressed  in  all  his  trim. 

Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  every  thing ; 

That  heavy  Saturn  laughed  and  leaped  with  him. 

Yet  not  the  lays  of  birds,  nor  the  sweet  smell 

Of  different  flowers  in  odor  and  in  hue, 

Could  make  me  any  summer's  story  tell, 

Or  from  their  proud  lap  pluck  them  where  they  grew, 

Nor  did  I  wonder  at  the  lilies  white. 

Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  in  the  rose  : 

They  were  but  sweet,  but  patterns  of  delight, 

Drawn  after  you,  you  pattern  of  all  those. 

Yet  seemed  it  winter  still ;  and,  you  away, 

As  with  your  shadow,  I  with  these  did  play. 

Shakspeare  was  fond  of  alluding  to  April.  He  did  not  allow 
May  to  have  all  his  regard,  because  she  was  richer.  Perdita, 
crowned  with  flowers,  in  the  Winter^s  Tale,  is  beautifully  com- 
pared to 

Flora, 
Peering  in  April's  front. 

There  is  a  line  in  one  of  his  sonnets,  which,  agreeably  to  the 
image  he  had  in  his  mind,  seems  to  strike  up  in  one's  face,  hot 
and  odorous,  like  perfume  in  a  censer. 

In  process  of  the  seasons  have  I  seen 

Three  April  perfumes  in  three  hot  Junes  burned. 

His  allusions  to  Spring  are  numerous  in  proportion.  We  all 
know  the  song,  containing  that  fine  line,  fresh  from  the  most 
brilliant  of  palettes : 

When  daisies  pied,  and  violets  blue, 
And  lady-smocks  all  silver  white. 
And  cuckoo-buds  of  yellow  hue, 
Do  paint  the  meadi  ws  with  delight. 
17* 


192  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  ixxiv. 

We  owe  a  long  debt  of  gratitude  to  the  daisy  ;  and  we  take 
this  opportunity  of  discharging  a  nriillionth  part  of  it.  If  we 
undertook  to  pay  it  all,  we  should  have  had  to  write  such  a  book, 
as  is  never  very  likely  to  be  wi-itten, — a  journal  of  numberless 
happy  hours  in  childhood,  kept  with  the  feelings  of  an  infant  and 
the  pen  of  a  man.  For  it  would  take,  we  suspect,  a  depth  of 
delight  and  a  subtlety  of  words,  to  express  even  the  vague  joy 
of  infancy,  such  as  our  learned  departures  from  natural  wisdom 
would  find  it  more  difficult  to  put  together,  than  criticism  and 
comfort,  or  an  old  palate  and  a  young  relish. — But  knowledge 
is  the  widening  and  the  brightening  road  that  must  conduct  us 
back  to  the  joys  from  which  it  led  us  ;  and  which  it  is  destined 
perhaps  to  secure  and  extend.  We  must  not  quarrel  with  its 
asperities,  when  we  can  help. 

We  do  not  know  the  Greek  name  of  the  daisy,  nor  do  the  dic- 
tionaries inform  us  ;  and  we  are  not  at  present  in  the  way  of  con- 
sulting books  that  might.  We  always  like  to  see  what  the 
Greeks  say  to  these  things,  because  they  had  a  sentiment  in  their 
enjoyments.  The  Latins  called  the  daisy  Bellis  or  Bellus,  as 
much  as  to  say  Nice  One.  With  the  French  and  Italians  it  has 
the  same  name  as  a  Pearl, — Marguerite,  Margarita,  or,  by  way 
of  endearment,  Margheretina.*  The  same  word  was  the  name 
of  a  woman,  and  occasioned  infinite  intermixtures  of  compliment 
about  pearls,  daisies,  and  fair  mistresses.  Chaucer,  in  his 
beautiful  poem  of  the  Flower  and  the  Leaf,  which  is  evidently 
imitated  from  some  French  poetess,  says. 

And  at  the  laste  there  began  anon 

A  lady  for  to  sing  right  womanly 

A  bargarett  in  praising  the  daisie, 

For  as  me  thought  among  her  notes  sweet. 

She  said  "  Si  douset  est  la  Margarete." 

'Ihe  Margaret  is  so  sweet."     Our  Margaret,  however,  in  this 
allegorical  poem,  is  undervalued  in  comparison  with  the  laureJ  ; 

*  This  word  is  originally  Greek, — Margarites;  and  as  the  Franks  proba 
bly  brought  it  from  Constantinople,  perhaps  they  brought  its  association 
with  the  daisy  also. 

t  Bargaret,  Bergerette,  a  little  pastoral 


CHAP.  XXXIV.]  SPRING  AND  DAISIES.  193 

yet  Chaucer  perhaps  was  partly  induced  to  translate  it  on  ac- 
count of  its  making  the  figure  that  it  does ;  for  he  has  informed 
us  more  than  once,  in  a  very  particular  manner,  that  it  was  his 
favorite  flower.  There  is  an  interesting  passage  to  this  effect  in 
his  Legend  of  the  Good  Women ;  where  he  says,  that  nothing 
but  the  daisied  fields  in  spring  could  take  him  from  his  books. 

And  as  for  me,  though  that  I  can  but  lite* 
On  bookes  for  to  read^I  me  delight, 
And  to  hem  give  I  faith  and  full  credence, 
And  in  my  heart  have  hem  in  reverence, 
So  heartily,  that  there  is  game  none. 
That  from  my  bookes  maketh  me  to  gone, 
But  it  be  seldom,  on  the  holy  day ; 
Save  certainly,  when  that  the  month  of  May 
Is  comen,  and  that  I  hear  the  foules  sing. 
And  that  the  flowers  ginnen  for  to  spring, 
Farewell  my  booke,  and  my  devotion. 
,    '      Now  have  I  then  eke  this  condition. 
That  of  all  the  flowers  in  the  mead. 
Then  love  I  most  those  flowers  white  and  red, 
Such  that  men  callen  daisies  in  our  town, 
To  hem  I  have  so  great  affection. 
As  I  said  erst,  when  comen  is  the  May, 
That  in  the  bed  there  dawethf  me  no  day, 
That  I  nam  up  and  walking  in  the  mead. 
To  seen  this  flower  agenst  the  sunne  spread, 
When  it  upriseth  early  by  the  morrow, 
That  blissful  sight  softeneth  all  my  sorrow 
So  glad  am  I,  when  that  I  have  presence 
Of  it,  to  done  it  all  reverence. 
As  she  that  is  of  all  flowers  the  flower. 

He  says  that  he  finds  it  ever  new,  and  that  he  shall  love  it  till 
his  "heart  dies:"  and  afterwards,  with  a  natural  picture  of  his 
resting  on  the  grass, 

Adown  full  soft^ley  I  gan  to  sink. 
And  leaning  on  my  elbow  and  my  side. 
The  long  day  I  shopej  me  for  to  abide 
For  nothing  else,  and  I  shall  not  lie. 
But  for  to  look  upon  the  daLsie  ; 
That  well  by  reason  men  it  call  may 
The  daisie,  or  else  the  eye  of  day. 

•  Know  but  little  f  Dawneth.  t  Shaped. 


194  THE  INDICATOR,  [chap,  xxxiv 

This  etymology,  which  we  have  no  doubt  is  the  real  one,  in 
repeated  by  Ben  Jonson,  who  takes  occasion  to  spell  the  word 
"days-eyes;"  adding,  with  his  usual  tendency  to  overdo  a 
matter  of  learning, 

Days-eyes,  and  the  lippes  of  cows ; 

videlicet,  cowslips :  which  is  a  disentanglement  of  compounds, 
in  the  style  of  our  pleasant  parodists : 

Puddings  of  the  plum. 


And  fingers  of  the  lady, 

Mr.  Wordsworth  introduces  his  homage  to  the  daisy  with  a 
passage  from  George  Wither ;  which,  as  it  is  an  old  favorite  of 
ours,  and  extremely  applicable  both  to  this  article  and  our  whole 
work,  we  cannot  deny  ourselves  the  pleasure  of  repeating.  It 
is  the  more  interesting,  inasmuch  as  it  was  written  in  prison, 
where  the  freedom  of  the  author's  opinions  had  thrown  him.* 
He  is  speaking  of  his  Muse,  or  Imagination. 

Her  divine  skill  taught  me  this  ; 
That  from  every  thing  I  saw 
I  could  some  instruction  draw, 
And  raise  pleasure  to  the  height 
From  the  meanest  object's  sight. 
By  the  murmur  of  a  spring, 
Or  the  least  bough's  rustelling; 
By  a  daisy,  whose  leaves  spread 
Shut,  when  Titan  goes  to  bed  ; 
Or  a  shady  bush  or  tree  ; 
She  could  more  infuse  in  me, 
Than  all  Nature's  beauties  can 
In  some  other  wiser  man. 

Mr.  Wordsworth  undertakes  to  patronise  the  Celandine,  because 
nobody  else  will  notice  it ;  which  is  a  good  reason.  But  though 
he  tells  us,  in  a  startling  piece  of  information,  that 

*  It  is  not  generally  known  that  Chaucer  was  four  years  in  prison,  in  his 
old  age,  on  the  same  account.  He  was  a  Wicklithte — one  of  the  precursors 
of  the  Reformation.  His  prison,  doubtless,  was  no  diminisher  of  his  love 
of  the  daisy. 


CHAP  ixxTV.]  SPRING  AND  DAISIES.  195 

Poets,  vain  men  in  their  mood, 
Travel  with  the  multitude, 

yet  he  falls  in  with  his  old  brethren  of  England  and  Normandy, 
and  becomes  loyal  to  the  daisy. 

Be  violets  in  their  secret  mews 

The  flowers  the  wanton  Zephyrs  chuse ; 

Proud  be  the  rose,  with  rains  and  dews 

Her  head  impearling ; 

Thou  liv'st  with  less  ambitious  aim, 

Yet  hast  not  gone  without  thy  fame ; 

Thou  art  indeed,  by  many  a  claim. 

The  poet's  darling. 
«         •        «         «         « 

A  nun  demure,  of  lowly  port ; 

Or  sprightly  maiden  of  Love's  court. 

In  thy  simplicity  the  sport 

Of  all  temptations  ; 
A  queen  in  crown  of  rubies  drest ; 
A  starveling  in  a  scanty  vest ; 
Are  all,  as  seem  to  suit  thee  best. 

Thy  appellations. 

A  little  Cyclops,  with  one  eye 

Staring  to  threaten  or  defy,— 

That  thought  comes  next,  and  instantly 

The  freak  is  over ; 
The  freak  will  vanish,  and  behold ! 
A  silver  shield  with  boss  of  gold. 
That  spreads  itself,  some  fairy  bold 

In  fight  to  cover. 

I  see  thee  glittering  from  afar  ; 
And  then  thou  art  a  pretty  star, 
Not  quite  so  fair  as  many  are 

In  heaven  above  thee  ! 
Yet  like  a  star,  wi*  glittering  crest, 
Self-poised  in  air,  thou  seem'st  to  rest  ;— 
May  peace  come  never  to  his  nest. 

Who  shall  reprove  thee. 

Sweet  flower !  for  by  that  name  at  last. 
When  all  my  reveries  are  past, 
I  (fall  thee,  and  to  that  cleave  fast ; 
Sv^eet  silent  creature ! 


1«6  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxxiv 

That  breath'st  v/ith  me  in  sun  and  air, 
Do  thou,  as  thou  art  wont,  repair 
My  heart  with  gladness,  and  a  share 
Of  thy  meek  nature. 

Mr.  Wordsworth  calls  the  daisy  "  an  'unassuming  common 
place  of  Nature,"  which  it  is ;  and  he  praises  it  very  becom- 
ingly  for  discharging  its  duties  so  cheerfully,  in  that  universal 
character.  But  we  cannot  agree  with  him  in  thinking  that  it  has 
a  "homely  face."  Not  that  we  should  care,  if  it  had;  for 
homeliness  does  not  make  ugliness  ;  but  we  appeal  to  everybody, 
whether  it  is  proper  to  say  this  of  la  belle  Marguerite.  In  the 
first  place,  its  shape  is  very  pretty  and  slender,  but  not  too  much 
so.  Then  it  has  a  boss  of  gold,  set  round  and  irradiated  with 
silver  points.  Its  yellow  and  fair  white  are  in  so  high  a  taste  of 
contrast,  that  Spenser  has  chosen  the  same  colors  for  a  picture 
of  Leda  reposing : 

Oh  wondrous  skill  and  sweet  wit  of  the  man  ! 

That  her  in  daffodillies  sleeping  laid, 

From  scorching  heat  her  dainty  limbs  to  shade. 

It  is  for  the  same  reason,  that  the  daisy,  being  chiefly  white, 
makes  such  a  beautiful  show  in  company  with  the  buttercup. 
But  this  is  not  all ;  for  look  at  the  back,  and  you  find  its  fair 
petals  blushing  with  a  most  delightful  red.  And  how  compactly 
and  delicately  is  the  neck  set  in  green  !  Belle  et  douce  Margue. 
rite,  aimable  sceur  du  roi  Kingcap,  we  would  tilt  for  thee  with  a 
hundred  pens,  against  the  stoutest  poet  that  did  not  find  perfec- 
tion in  thy  cheek. 

But  here  somebody  may  remind  us  of  the  spring  showers,  and 
what  drawbacks  they  are  upon  going  into  the  fields. — Not  at  all 
so,  when  the  spring  is  really  confirmed,  and  the  showers  but 
April-like  and  at  intervals.  Let  us  turn  our  imaginations  to  the 
bright  side  of  spring,  and  we  shall  forget  the  showers.  You  see 
they  have  been  forgotten  just  this  moment.  Besides,  we  are  not 
likely  to  stray  too  fai  mto  the  fields  ;  and  if  we  should,  are  there 
not  hats,  bonnets,  barns,  cottages,  elm-trees,  and  good-wills  ? 
We  may  make  these  things  zests,  if  we  please,  instead  of  draw- 
backs. 


CHAP.  XXXV.]  MAY-DAY.  197 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

May-Day. 

May-day  is  a  word,  which  used  to  awaken  in  the  minds  of 
our  ancestors  all  the  ideas  of  youth,  and  verdure,  and  blossom- 
ing, and  love,  and  hilarity ;  in  short,  the  union  of  the  two  best 
things  in  the  world,  the  love  of  nature,  and  the  love  of  each 
other.  It  was  the  day,  on  which  the  arrival  of  the  5'ear  at  matu- 
rity was  kept,  like  that  of  a  blooming  heiress.  They  caught  her 
eye  as  she  was  coming,  and  sent  up  hundreds  of  songs  of  joy. 

Now  the  bright  Morning-Star,  Day's  harbinger, 
Comes  dancing  from  the  east,  and  leads  with  her 
The  flowery  May,  who  from  her  green  lap  throws 
The  yellow  cowslip,  and  the  pale  primrose. 

Hail,  bounteous  May,  that  dost  inspire 

Mirth,  and  youth,  and  warm  desire: 

Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing ; 

Hill  and  dale,  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song, 
And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 

These  songs  were  stopped  by  Milton's  friends  the  Puritans, 
whom  in  his  old  age  he  differed  with,  most  likely  on  these  points 
among  others.  But  till  then,  they  appear  to  have  been  as  old, 
all  over  Europe,  as  the  existence  of  society.  The  Druids  are 
said  to  have  had  festivals  in  honor  of  May.  Our  Teutonic  an- 
cestors had,  undoubtedly ;  and  in  the  countries  which  had  con- 
stituted the  Western  Roman  Empire,  Flora  still  saw  thanks  paid 
for  her  flowers,  though  her  worship  had  gone  away.* 

*  The  great  May  holiday  observed  over  the  West  of  Europe  was  known 
for  centuries,  up  to  a  late  period,  under  the  name  of  the  Belte,  or  Beltane 
Such  a  number  of  etymologies,  all  perplexingly  probable,  have  been  found 
for  this  word,  that  we  have  been  surprised  to  miss  among  them  that  of  Bel- 
temps,  the  Fine  Time  or  Season.  Thus  Printemps,  the  First  Time,  or 
Prime  Season   is  the  Spring. 


198  THE  fNDICA'fOR.  [chap,  xxxt 

The  homage  which  was  paid  to  the  Month  of  Love  and  flow- 
ers, may  be  divided  into  two  sorts,  the  general  and  the  individ- 
ual. The  first  consisted  in  going  with  others  to  gather  May, 
and  in  joinftig  in  sports  and  games  afterwards..  On  the  first  of 
the  month,  "  the  juvenile  part  of  both  sexes,"  says  Bourne,  in  his 
Popular  Antiquities,  "  were  wont  to  rise  a  little  after  midnight 
and  walk  to  some  neighboring  wood,  where  they  broke  down 
branches  from  the  trees,  and  adorned  them  with  nosegays  and 
crowns  of  flowers.  When  this  was  done,  they  returned  with 
their  booty  about  the  rising  of  the  §un,  and  made  their  doors  and 
windows  to  triumph  in  the  flowery  spoil.  The  after  part  of  the 
day  was  chiefly  spent  in  dancing  round  a  May-pole,  which  being 
placed  in  a  convenient  part  of  the  village,  stood  there,  as  it  were, 
consecrated  to  the  Goddess  of  Flowers^  without  the  least  viola- 
aor^offered  to  it,  in  the  whole  eitcle  of  the  year."  Sfienser,  in 
Iiis  Shepherd's  Calendar,  has  detailed  the  eircumstan3es,  in  a 
8tf  le  like  a  rustic  dance. 

Younge  folke  now  flocken  in — every  where 
To  gather  May-buskets* — and  swelling  brere ; 
And  home  they  hasten — the  postes  to  dight. 
And  all  the  kirk-pilours — eare  day-light, 
With  hawthorne  buds — and  sweet  eglantine, 
Aqd  girlonds  of  roses — and  soppes  in  wine. 
•         **••*•*• 
Sicker  this  morrowe,  no  longer  agoe, 
I  saw  a  shole  of  shepherds  outgoe 
With  singing,  and  shouting,  and  jolly  chere ; 
Before  them  yodef  a  lustie  tabrerej 
That  to  the  many  a  hornpipe  played, 
Whereto  they  dauncen  eche  one  with  his  mayd. 
To  see  these  folks  make  such  joviaaunce. 
Made  my  heart  after  the  pipe  to  daunce. 
Tho§  to  the  greene  wood  they  speeden  hem  all, 
To  fetchen  home  May  with  their  musicall ; 
And  home  they  bringen,  in  a  royall  throne. 
Crowned  as  king;  and  his  queen  attone|| 
Was  Lady  Flora,  on  whom  did  attend 
A  fayre  flocl^  of  faeries,  and  a  fresh  bend 

•  Buskets — Boskets — Bushes — from  Boschetti,  Ital. 
t  Yode,  Went.  %  Tabrere,  a  Tabourer. 

\  Tho,  Then.  ||  Mtone,  At  once— With  him 


CHAP.  XXXV.]  MAY-DAY.  199 

Of  lovely  nymphs.     0  that  I  v(rere  there 
To  helpen  the  ladies  their  May-bush  beare. 

The  day  was  passed  in  sociality  and  manly  sports  ; — in  arch- 
ery, and  running,  and  pitching  the  bar,x— in  dancir  g,  singing, 
playing  music,  acting  Robin  Hood  and  his  company,  and  mak- 
ing a  well-earned  feast  upon  all  the  country  dainties  in  season. 
It  closed  with  an  award  of  prizes. 

As  I  have  seen  the  Lady  of  the  May, 

Set  in  an  arbor  (on  a  holiday) 

Built  by  the  Maypole,  where  the  jocund  swains 

Dance  with  the  maidens  to  the  bag-pipe's  strains. 

When  envious  night  commands  them  to  be  gone. 

Call  for  the  merry  youngsters  one  by  one. 

And  for  their  well  performance  soon  disposes. 

To  this  a  garland  interwove  with  roses, 

To  that  a  carved  hook,  or  well-wrought  scrip. 

Gracing  another  with  her  cherry  lip ; 

To  one  her  garter,  to  another  then 

A  handkerchief  cast  o'er  and  o'er  again ; 

And  none  returneth  empty,  that  hath  spent 

His  pains  to  fill  their  rural  merriment.* 

Among  the  gentry  and  at  court  the  spirit  of  the  same  enjoy- 
ments  took  place,  modified  according  to  the  taste  or  rank  of  the 
entertainers.  The  most  universal  amusement,  agreeably  to  the 
general  current  in  the  veins,  and  the  common  participation  of 
flesh  and  blood  (for  rank  knows  no  distinction  of  legs  and  knee- 
pans),  was  dancing.  Contests  of  chivalry  supplied  the  place  of^ 
more  rural  gymnastics.  But  the  most  poetical  and'  elaborate 
entertainment  was  the  Mask.  A  certain  flowery  grace  was 
sprinkled  over  all ;  and  the  finest  spirits  of  the  time  thought  they 

*  Britannia's  Pastorals,  by  William  Browne.  Song  the  4th.  Browne, 
like  his  friend  Wither,  from  whom  we  quoted  a  passage  last  week,  wanted 
strength  and  the  power  of  selection ;  though  not  to  such  an  extent.  He  is, 
however,  well  worth  reading  by  those  who  can  expatiate  over  a  pastoral 
subject,  like  a  meadowy  tract  of  country :  finding  out  the  beautiful  spots, 
and  gratified,  if  not  much  delighted,  with  the  rest.  His  genius,  which  was 
by  no  means  destitute  of  the  social  part  of  passion,  seems  to  have  been 
turned  almost  wholly  to  description,  by  the  beauties  of  his  native  count; 
Devonshire. 

18 


200  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  xxxv. 

showed  both  their  manliness  and  wisdom,  in  knowing  how  to 
raise  the  pleasures  of  the  season  to  their  height.  Sir  Philip 
Sydney,  the  idea  of  whom  has  come  down  to  us  as  a  personifi- 
cation of  all  the  refinement  of  that  age,  is  fondly  recollected  by 
Spenser  in  this  character. 

His  sports  were  faire,  his  joyance  innocent, 
Sweet  without  soure,  and  honey  without  gall : 
And  he  himself  seemed  made  for  merriment. 
Merrily  masking  both  in  bowre  and  hall. 
There  was  no  pleasure  nor  delightfull  play. 
When  Astrophel  soever  was  away. 

For  he  could  pipe,  and  daunce,  and  caroU  sweet, 
Amongst  the  shepherds  in  their  shearing  feast; 
As  somer's  larke  that  with  her  song  doth  greet 
The  dawning  day  forth  comming  from  the  East. 
And  layes  of  love  he  also  could  compose  ; 
Thrice  happie  she,  whom  he  to  praise  did  choose. 

Astrophel,  St.  5. 

Individual  homage  to  the  month  of  May  consisted  in  paying 
respect  to  it  though  alone,  and  in  plucking  flowers  and  flowering 
houghs  to  adorn  apartments  with. 

This  maiden,  in  a  morn  betime. 

Went  forth  when  May  was  in  the  prime 

To  get  sweet  setywall, 
The  honey-suckle,  the  harlock, 
The  lily,  and  the  lady-smock. 

To  deck  her  summer-hall. 

Drayton's  Pastorals,  Eclog.  4. 

But  when  morning  pleasures  are  to  be  spoken  of,  the  lovers  of 
poetry  who  do  not  know  Chaucer,  are  like  those  who  do  not 
know  what  it  is  to  be  up  in  the  morning.  He  has  left  us  two 
exquisite  pictures  of  the  solitary  observance  of  May,  in  his 
Palamon  and  Arcite.  They  are  the  more  curious,  inasmuch  as 
the  actor  in  one  is  a  lady,  and  in  the  other  a  knight.  How  far 
the),  owe  any  of  their  beauty  to  the  original,  the  Theseide  of 
Boccaccio,  we  cannot  say  ;  for  we  never  had  the  happiness  of 
meeting  with  that  rare  work.  The  Italians  have  so  neglected 
it,  that  they  have  not  only  never  given  it  a  rifacimento  or  re- 


CHAP.  XXXV.]  MAY-DAY.  201 

modelling,  as  in  the  instance  of  Boiardo's  poem,  but  ar6  almost 
as  much  unacquainted  with  it,  we  believe,  as  foreign  nations. 
Chaucer  thought  it  worth  his  while  to  be  both  acquainted  with 
it,  and  to  make  others  so ;  and  we  may  venture  to  say,  that  we 
know  of  no  Italian  after  Boccaccio's  age  who  was  so  likely  to 
understand  him  to  the  core,  as  his  English  admirer,  Ariosto  not 
excepted.  Still  from  what  we  have  seen  of  Boccaccio's  poetry, 
we  can  imagine  the  Tfieseide  to  have  been  too  lax  and  long. 
If  Chaucer's  Palamon  and  Arcite  be  all  that  he  thought  proper 
to  distil  from  it,  it  must  have  been  greatly  so ;  for  it  was  an 
epic.  But  at  all  events  the  essence  is  an  exquisite  one.  The 
tree  must  have  been  a  fine  old  enormity,  from  which  such  honey 
could  be  drawn. 

To  begin,  as  in  duty  bound,  with  the  lady.  How  she  spark- 
les through  the  antiquity  of  the  language,  like  a  young  beauty 
in  an  old  hood  ! 

Thus  passeth  yere  by  yere,  and  day  by  day. 
Till  it  felle  ones  in  a  morowe  of  May, 
That  Emelie— 

But  we  will  alter  the  spelling  where  we  can,  as  in  a  former 
instance,  merely  to  let  the  reader  see  what  a  notion  is  in  his 
way,  if  he  suffers  the  look  of  Chaucer's  words  to  prevent  his 
enjoying  him. 

Thus  passeth  year  by  year,  and  day  by  day, 
Till  it  fell  once,  in  a  morrow  of  May, 
That  Emily,  that  fairer  was  to  seen 
Than  is  the  lily  upon  his  stalk  green. 
And  fresher  than  the  May  with  flowers  new, 
(For  with  the  rosy  color  strove  her  hue ; 
I  n'ot  which  was  the  finer  of  them  two) 
Ere  it  was  day,  as  she  was  wont  to  do. 
She  was  arisen  and  all  ready  dight. 
For  May  will  have  no  sluggardy  a-night : 
The  season  pricketh  every  gentle  heart. 
And  maketh  him  out  of  his  sleep  to  start. 
And  saith,  "  Arise,  and  do  thine  observance." 

This  maketh  Emily  have  remembrance 
To  do  honor  to  May,  and  for  to  rise. 


2Cf2  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxxv 

Yclothed  was  she,  fresh  for  to  devise : 
Her  yellow  hair  was  braided  in  a  tress, 
Behind  her  back,  a  yarde*  long  I  guess : 
And  in  the  garden,  at  the  sun  uprist, 
She  walketh  up  and  down  where  as  her  list; 
She  gathereth  flowers,  party  white  and  red 
To  make  a  subtle  garland  for  her  head ; 
And  as  an  angel,  heavenly  she  sung. 
The  great  tower,  that  was  so  thick  and  strong, 
Which  of  the  castle  was  the  chief  dongeon 
(Where  as  these  knightes  werep  in  pyison. 
Of  which  I  tolde  you,  and  tellen  shall), 
Was  evftn  joinant  to  the  garden  wall, 
There  as  this  Eigiily  had  her  playing. 

Bright  was -the  sun,  and  clear  that  morwSning — 

[How  finely,  to  our  ears  at  least,  the  second  line  of  the  couplet 
always  rises  up  from  this  full  stop  at  the  first !] 

Bright  was  the  sun,  apd  clear  that  morwShing, 
And  Palamon,  this  woeful  prisoner. 
As  was  his  wont,  by  leave  of  his  jailer. 
Was  i;isen,  and  roamed  in  a  chamber  on  high. 
In  which  he  all  the  noble  city  sighf. 
And  eke  the  garden,  full  of  branches  green. 
There  as  this  fresh  Emilia  the  sheenj 
Was  in  her  walk,  and  roamed  up  and  down. 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  his  edition  of  Dryden,  says  upon  the  pas- 
sage before  us,  and  Dryden's  version  of  it,  that  "  the  modern 
must  yield  the  palm  to  the  aneient,  in  spite  of  the  beauty  of  his 
versification."  We  quote  from  memory,  but  this  is  the  sub- 
stance of  his  words.  For  our  parts,  we  agree  with  them,  as  to 
the  consignment  of  the  palm,  but  not  as  to  the  exception  about 
the  versification.  With  some  allowance  as  to  our  present  mode 
of  accentuation,  it  appears  to  us  to  be  touched  with  a  finer  sense 
of  music  even  than  Dryden's.  It  is  more  delicate,  without  any 
inferiority  in  strength,  aiid  still  more  various. 

But   to  our  other  portrait.     It  is  as  sparkling  with  young 

•  These  additional  syllables  are  to  be  read  slightly,  like  the  e  in  French 
verse. 

t  Saw.  {The  fining. 


CHAP.  XXXV.]  MAY-DAY.  203 

manhood,  as  the  former  is  with  a  gentler  freshness.  What  a 
burst  of  radiant  joy  is  in  the  second  couplet ;  what  a  vital  quick- 
ness in  the  comparison  of  the  horse,  "starting  as  the  fire;"  and 
what  a  native  and  happy  ease  in  the  conclusion ! 

The  busy  lark,  the  messenger  of  day, 
Saleweth  *  in  her  song  the  morrow  grey ; 
And  fiery  Phcebus  riseth  up  so  bright. 
That  all  the  orient  laugheth  of  the  sight ; 
And  with  his  stremes  drieth  in  the  greves  f 
The  silver  droppes  hanging  in  the  leaves ; 
And  Arcite,  that  is  in  the  court  real  f 
With  Theseus  the  squier  principal. 
Is  risen,  and  looketh  on  the  merry  day ; 
And  for  to  do  his  observance  to  May, 
Rememb'ring  on  the  point  of  his  desire. 
He  on  the  courser,  starting  as  the  fire, 
Is  ridden  to  the  fieldes  him  to  play. 
Out  of  the  court,  were  it  a  mile  or  tway  : 
And  to  the  grove,  of  which  that  I  you  told. 
By  ^venture  his  way  'gan  to  hold. 
To  maken  him  a  garland  of  the  greves. 
Were  it  of  woodbind  or  of  hawthorn  leaves. 
And  loud  he  sung  against  the  sunny  sheen  : 
"  0  May,  with  all  thy  flowers  and  thy  green, 
Right  welcome  be  thou,  faire  freshe  May : 
I  hope  that  I  some  green  here  getten  may." 
And  from  his  courser,  with  a  lusty  heart. 
Into  the  grove  full  hastily  he  start. 
And  in  the  path  he  roamed  up  and  down. 

The  versification  of  this  is  not  so  striking  as  the  other,  but 
Dryden  again  falls  short  in  the  freshness  and  feeling  of  the 
sentiment.  His  lines  are  beautiful ;  but  they  do  not  come  home 
to  us  with  so  happy  and  cordial  a  face.  Here  they  are.  The 
word  morning  in  the  first  line,  as  it  is  repeated  in  the  second, 
we  are  bound  to  consider  as  a  slip  of  the  pen ;  perhaps  for 
mounting. 

The  morning -lark,  the  messenger  of  day, 

Saluteth  in  her  song  the  morning  grey ; 

And  soon  the  sun  arose  with  beams  so  bright, 


Saluteth.  t  Grove^.  t  I^ova]. 

18^ 


•204  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  ixxv 

That  all  the  horizon  laughed  to  see  the  joyous  sight : 

He  with  his  tepid  rays  the  rose  renews, 

And  licks  the  drooping  leaves  and  dries  the  dew* 

When  Arcite  left  his  bed,  resolv'd  to  pay 

Observance  to  the  month  of  merry  May  : 

Forth  on  his  fiery  steed  betimes  be  "-ode, 

That  scarcely  prints  the  turf  on  which  he  trod : 

At  ease  he  seemed,  and  prancing  o'er  the  plains, 

Turned  only  to  the  grove  his  horse's  reins. 

The  grove  I  named  before ;  and,  lighted  there, 

A  woodbine  garland  sought  to  crown  his  hair ; 

Then  turned  his  face  against  the  rising  day, 

And  raised  his  voice  to  welcome  in  the  May : 

"  For  thee,  sweet  month,  the  groves  green  liveries  wear, 

If  not  the  first,  the  fairest  of  the  year : 

For  thee  the  Graces  lead  the  dancing  Hours, 

And  Nature's  ready  pencil  paints  the  flowers : 

When  thy  short  reign  is  past,  the  feverish  Sun 

The  sultry  tropic  fears,  and  moves  more  slowly  on. 

So  may  thy  tender  blossoms  fear  no  blight. 

Nor  goats  with  venom'd  teeth  thy  tendrils  bite, 

As  thou  shalt  guide  my  wandering  steps  to  find 

The  fragrant  greens  I  seek,  my  brows  to  bind," 

His  vows  address'd,  within  the  grove  he  stray'd. 

How  poor  is  this  to  Ai'cite's  leaping  from  his  courser  "  with 
a  lusty  heart!"  How  inferior  the  common-place  of  the  "fiery- 
steed,"  which  need  not  involve  any  actual  notion  in  the  writer's 
mind,  to  the  courser  "  starting  as  the  fire  ;  " — how  inferior  the 
turning  his  face  to  "the  rising  day"  and  raising  his  voice  to 
the  singing  "loud  against  the  sunny  sheen;"  and  lastly,  the 
whole  learned  invocation  and  adjuration  of  May,  about  guiding 
his  "  wandering  steps  "  and  "  so  may  thy  tender  blossoms,"  &c., 
to  the  call  upon  the  "  fair  fresb  May,"  ending  with  that  simple, 
quick-hearted  line,  in  which  he  hopes  he  shall  get  "  some  green 
here  ;  "  a  touch  in  the  happiest  vivacity  !  Dryden's  genius,  for 
the  most  part,  wanted  faith  in  nature.  It  was  too  gross  and 
sophisticate.  There  was  as  much  difference  between  him  and 
his  original,  as  between  a  hot  noon  in  perukes  at  St.  James's, 
and  one  of  Chaucer's  lounges  on  the  grass,  of  a  May-morning. 

All  this  worship  of  May  is  over  now.  There  i-s  no  issuing  forth, 
in  glad  companies,  to   gather   boughs ;  no   adorning  of  houses 


CHAP.  XXXV.]  MAY-DAY.  mi 

with  "  the  flowery  spoil ;  "  no  songs,  no  dances,  no  village  sports 
and  coronations,  no  courtly  poetries,  no  sense  and  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  quiet  presence  of  nature,  in  grove  or  glade. 

0  dolce  primavera,  o  fior  novelli, 

0  aure,  o  arboscelli,  o  fresche  erbette, 

0  piagge  benedette ;  o  colli,  o  monti, 

0  valli,  o  fiumi,  o  fonti,  o  verdi  rivi, 

Palme  lauri,  ed  olive,  edere  e  mirti ; 

O  gloriosi  spirit!  de  gli  boschi ; 

0  Eco,  o  antri  foschi,  o  chiare  linfe, 

0  faretrate  ninfe,  o  agresti  Pani, 

0  Satiri  e  Silvani,  o  Fauni  e  Driadi, 

Naiadi  ed  Amadriadi,  o  Semidee, 

Oreadi  e  Napee, — or  siete  sole. — Sannazzaro. 

0  thou  delicious  spring,  0  ye  new  flowers, 

O  airs,  0  youngling  bowers ;  fresh  thickening  grass, 

And  plains  beneath  heaven's  face  ;  0  hills  and  mountains, 

Valleys,  and  streams,  and  fountains  ;  banks  of  green. 

Myrtles,  and  paims  serene,  ivies,  and  bays ; 

And  ye  who  warmed  old  lays,  spirits  o'  the  woods. 

Echoes,  and  solitudes,  and  lakes  of  light ; 

0  quivered  virgins  bright.  Pans  rustical, 

Satyres  and  Sylvans  all.  Dryads,  and  ye 

That  up  the  mountains  be  ;  and  ye  beneath 

In  meadow  or  flowery  heath, — ye  are  alone. 

Two  hundred  years  ago,  our  ancestors  used  to  delight  in 
anticipating  their  May  holidays.  Bigotry  came  in,  and  frowned 
them  away  ;  then  Debauchery,  and  identified  all  pleasures  with 
the  town  ;  then  Avarice,  and  we  have  ever  since  been  mistaking 
the  means  for  the  end. 

Fortunately,  it  does  not  follow  that  we  shall  continue  to  do  so. 
Commerce,  while  it  thinks  it  is  only  exchanging  commodities,  is 
helping  to  diffuse  knowledge.  All  other  gains, — all  selfish  and 
extravagant  systems  of  acquisition, — tend  to  over-do  themselves, 
and  to  topple  down  by  their  own  undiffused  magnitude.  The 
world,  as  it  learns  other  things,  may  learn  not  to  confound  the 
means  with  the  end,  or  at  least  (to  speak  more  philosophically), 
a  really  poor  means  with  a  really  richer.  The  veriest  cricket- 
player  on  a  green  has  as  sufficient  a  quantity  of  excitement  as 


20G  THE  mDICATOR,  [chap,  xxxv 

a  fundholder  or  a  partisan  ;  and  health,  and  spirits,  and  manli< 
ness  to  boot.  Knowledge  may  go  on  ;  must  do  so,  from  neces- 
sity;  and  should  do  so,  for  the  ends  we  speak  of;  but  knowledge, 
so  far  from  being  incompatible  with  simplicity  of  pleasures,  is 
the  quickest  to  perceive  its  wealth.  Chaucer  would  lie  for 
hours,  looking  at  the  daisies.  Scipio  and  Laelius  could  amuse 
themselves  with  making  ducks  and  drakes  on  the  water.  Epa- 
minondas,  the  greatest  of  all  the  active  spirits  of  Greece,  was  a 
flute-player  and  dancer.  Alfred  the  Great  could  act  the  whole 
part  of  a  minstrel.  Epicurus  taught  the  riches  of  temperance 
and  intellectual  pleasure  in  a  garden.  The  other  philosophers 
of  his  country  walked  between  heaven  and  earth  in  the  collo- 
quial bowers  of  Academus ;  and  *'  the  wisest  heart  of  Solomon," 
who  found  everything  vain  because  he  was  a  king,  has  left  us 
panegyrics  on  the  Spring  and  the  "  voice  of  the  turtle,"  because 
he  was  a  poet,  a  lover,  and  a  wise  man. 


CHAP   XXXVI.]        SHAKSPEARE'S  BIRTH-DAY.  207 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

Shakspeare's  Birth-Day. 

The  fifth  of  May,  making  the  due  allowance  of  twelve  days 
from  the  twenty-third  of  April,  according  to  the  change  of 
the  Style,  is  the  birth-day  of  Shakspeare.  Pleasant  thoughts 
must  be  associated  with  him  in  everything.  If  he  is  not  to  be 
born  in  April,  he  must  be  born  in  May.  Nature  will  have  him 
with  her  on  her  blithest  holidays,  like  her  favorite  lover. 

O  thou  divine  human  creature — greater  name  than  even 
divine  poet  or  divine  philosopher — and  yet  thou  wast  all  three — 
a  very  spring  and  vernal  abundance  of  all  fair  and  noble  things 
is  to  be  found  in  thy  productions !  They  are  truly  a  second 
nature.  We  walk  in  them,  with  whatever  society  we  please ; 
either  with  men,  or  fair  women,  or  circling  spirits,  or  with  none 
but  the  whispering  airs  and  leaves.  Thou  makest  worlds  of 
green  trees  and  gentle  natui-es  for  us,  in  thy  forests  of  Arden, 
and  thy  courtly  retirements  of  Navarre.  Thou  bringest  us 
amongst  the  holiday  lasses  on  the  green  sward ;  layest  us  to 
sleep  among  fairies  in  the  bowers  of  midsummer ;  wakest  us 
with  the  song  of  the  lark  and  the  silver-sweet  voices  of  lovers : 
bringest  more  music  to  our  ears,  both  from  earth  and  from  the 
planets ;  anon  settest  us  upon  enchanted  islands,  where  it  wel- 
comes us  again,  from  the  touching  of  invisible  instruments; 
and  after  all,  restorest  us  to  our  still  desired  haven,  the  arms  of 
humanity.  Whether  grieving  us  or  making  us  glad,  thou 
makest  us  kinder  and  happier.  The  tears  which  thou  fetchest 
down,  are  like  the  rains  of  April,  softening  the  times  that  come 
after  them.  Thy  smiles  are  those  of  the  month  of  love,  the 
more  blessed  and  universal  for  ttie  tears. 

The  birth-days  of  such  men  as  Shakspeare  ought  to  be  kept, 


208  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxxvi 

in  common  gratitude  and  affection,  like  those  of  relations  whom 
we  love.     He  has  said,  in  a  line  full  of  him,  that 

One  touch  of  nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin. 

How  near  does  he  become  to  us  with  his  thousand  touches ! 
The  lustre  and  utility  of  intellectual  power  is  so  increasing  in 
the  eyes  of  the  world,  that  we  do  not  despair  of  seeing  the  time 
when  his  birth-day  will  be  a  subject  of  public  rejoicing ;  when 
the  regular  feast  will  be  served  up  in  tavern  and  dwelling- 
house,  the  bust  crowned  with  laurel,  and  the  theatres  sparkle 
with  illuminations. 

In  the  mean  time,  it  is  in  the  power  of  every  admirer  ol 
Shakspeare  to  honor  the  day  privately.  Rich  or  poor,  busy  or 
at  leisure,  all  may  do  it.  The  busiest  finds  time  to  eat  his 
dinner,  and  may  pitch  one  considerate  glass  of  wine  down  his 
throat.  The  poorest  may  call  him  to  mind,  and  drink  his 
memory  in  honest  water.  We  had  mechanically  written  health, 
as  if  he  were  alive.  So  he  is  in  spirit ; — and  the  spirit  of  such 
a  writer  is  so  constantly  with  us,  that  it  would  be  a  good  thing, 
a  judicious  extravagance,  a  contemplative  piece  of  jollity,  to 
drink  his  health  instead  of  his  memory.  But  this,  we  fear, 
should  be  an  impulse.  We  must  content  ourselves  with  having 
felt  it  here,  and  drinking  it  in  imagination.  To  act  upon  it,  as 
a  proposal  of  the  day  before  yesterday,  might  be  too  much  like 
getting  up  an  extempore  gesture,  or  practising  an  unspeakable 
satisfaction. 

An  outline,  however,  may  be  drawn  of  the  manner  in  which 
such  a  birth-day  might  be  spent.  The  tone  and  coloring  would 
be  filled  up,  of  course,  according  to  the  taste  of  the  parties. — 
If  any  of  our  readers,  then,  have  leisure  as  well  as  inclination 
to  devote  a  day  to  the  memory  of  Shakspeare,  we  would  advise 
them,  in  the  first  place,  to  walk  out,  whether  alone  or  in  com- 
pany,  and  enjoy  during  the  morning  as  much  as  possible  of  those 
beauties  of  nature,  of  which  he  has  left  us  such  exquisite  pic- 
tures. They  would  take  a  volume  of  him  in  their  hands  the 
most  suitable  to  the  occasion ;  jiot  to  hold  themselves  bound  to 
sit  down  and  read  it,  nor  even  to  refer  to  it,  if  the  original  work 
of  nature  should  occupy  them  too  much ;  but  to  read  it,  if  they 


CHAP.  XXXVI.]  SHAKSPEARE'S  BIRTH-DAY.  209 

read  anything ;  and  to  feel  that  Shakspeare  was  with  them  sub- 
stantially as  well  as  spiritually ; — that  they  had  him  with  them 
under  their  arm.  There  is  another  thought  connected  with  his 
presence,  which  may  render  the  Londoner's  walk  the  more  in- 
teresting. Shakspeare  had  neither  the  vanity  which  induces  a 
man  to  be  disgusted  with  what  everybody  can  enjoy ;  nor,  on 
the  other  hand,  the  involuntary  self-degradation  which  renders 
us  incapable  of  enjoying  what  is  abased  by  our  own  familiarity 
of  acquaintanceship.  About  the  metropolis,  therefore,  there  is 
perhaps  not  a  single  rural  spot,  any  more  than  about  Stratford- 
upon-Avon,  which  he  has  not  himself  enjoyed.  The  south  side 
of  London  was  the  one  nearest  his  theatre.  Hyde  Park  was 
then,  as  it  is  now,  one  of  the  fashionable  promenades.  Rich- 
mond also  was  in  high  pride  of  estimation.  At  Greenwich 
Elizabeth  held  her  court,  and  walked  abroad  amid  the  gallant 
service  of  the  Sydneys  and  Raleighs.  And  Hampstead  and 
Highgate,  with  the  country  about  them,  were,  as  they  have  been 
ever  since,  the  favorite  resort  of  the  lovers  of  natural  produc- 
tions. Nay,  without  repeating  what  we  said  in  a  former  num- 
ber about  the  Mermaid  in  Cornhill,  the  Devil  Tavern  in  Fleet- 
street,  the  Boar's  Head  in  Eastcheap,  and  other  town  associations 
with  Shakspeare,  the  reader  who  cannot  get  out  of  London  on 
his  birth-day,  and  who  has  the  luck  to  be  hard  at  work  in 
Chancery-lane  or  the  Borough,  may  be  pretty  certain  that 
Shakspeare  has  admired  thd* fields  and  the  May  flowers  there ; 
for  the  fields  were  close  to  the  latter,  perhaps  came  up  to  the 
very  walls  of  the  theatre ;  and  the  suburban  mansion  and 
gardens  of  his  friend  Lord  Southampton  occupied  the  spot  now 
called  Southampton-buildings.  It  was  really  a  country  neighbor- 
hood. The  Old  Bourne  (Holborn)  ran  by  with  a  bridge  over 
't ;  and  Gray's  Inn  was  an  Academic  bower  in  the  fields. 

The  dinner  does  not  much  signify.  The  sparest  or  the  most 
abundant  will  suit  the  various  fortunes  of  the  great  poet ;  only  it 
will  be  as  well  for  those  who  can  afford  wine,  to  pledge  Falstaff" 
in  a  cup  of  "  sherris  sack,"  which  seems  to  have  been  a  sort  of 
sherry  negus.  After  dinner  Shakspeare's  volumes  will  come 
well  on  the  table  ;  lying  among  the  dessert  like  laurels,  where 
there   is  one,  and  supplying   it  where  there   is   not.     Instead  of 


210  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxxvi. 

songs,  the  persons  present  may  be  called  upon  for  scenes.  But 
no  stress  need  be  laid  on  this  proposition,  if  they  do  not  like  to 
read  out  aloud.  The  pleasure  of  the  day  should  be  as  much  at 
liberty  as  possible ;  and  if  the  company  prefer  conversation,  it 
will  not  be  very  easy  for  them  to  touch  upon  any  subject  which 
Shakspeare  shall  not  have  touched  upon  also.  If  the  en- 
thusiasm is  in  high  taste,  the  ladies  should  be  crowned  with  vio- 
lets, which  (next  to  the  roses  of  their  lips)  seem  to  have  been  his 
favorite  flower.  After  tea  should  come  singing  and  music,  espe- 
cially the  songs  which  Arne  set  from  his  plays,  and  the  ballad 
of  TJiou  soft-flowing  Avon.  If  an  engraving  or  bust  of  him  could 
occupy  the  principal  place  in  the  room,  it  would  look  like  the 
"  present  deity"  of  the  occasion  ;  and  we  have  known  a  very 
pleasant  effect  produced  by  everybody's  bringing  some  quotation 
applicable  to  him  from  his  works,  and  laying  it  before  his  image, 
to  be  read  in  the  course  of  the  evening. 


OBAP  XXXVII.]        LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCY  til 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Mercy. 

Among  the  pieces  printed  at  the  end  of  Chaucer's  works,  and 
attributed  to  him,  is  a  translation,  under  this  title,  of  a  poem  of 
the  celebrated  Alain  Chartier,  secretary  to  Charles  the  Sixth  and 
Seventh.  It  was  the  title  which  suggested  to  a  friend  the  verses 
at  the  end  of  our  present  Number.*  We  wish  Alain  could  have 
seen  them.  He  would  have  found  a  Troubadour  air  for  them, 
and  sung  them  to  La  Belle  Dame  Agnes  Sorel,  who  was,  how- 
ever, not  Sans  Mercy.  The  union  of  the  imaginative  and  the  real 
ia  very  striking  throughout,  particularly  in  the  dream.  The 
wild  gentleness  of  the  rest  of  the  thoughts  and  of  the  music  are 
alike  old,  and  they  are  also  alike  young  ;  for  love  and  imagina- 
tion are  always  young,  let  them  bring  with  them  what  times  and 
accompaniments  they  may.  If  we  take  real  flesh  and  blood  with 
us,  we  may  throw  ourselves,  on  the  facile  wings  of  our  sympa- 
thy, into  what  age  we  please.  It  is  only  by  trying  to  feel,  as 
well  as  to  fancy,  through  the  medium  of  a  costume,  that  writers 
become  fleshless  masks  and  cloaks — things  like  the  trophies  of 
the  ancients,  when  they  hung  up  the  empty  armor  of  an  enemy. 

LA    BELLE    DAME    SANS    MERCY. 

Ah,  what  can  ail  thee,  wretched  wight. 

Alone  and  palely  loitering  ? 
The  sedge  is  wither'd  from  the  lake. 

And  no  birds  sing. 

*  The  late  Mr.  Keats.  This  beautiful  little  effusion  is  reprinted  in  the  In- 
dicator, where  it  originally  appeared,  because  it  is  not  to  be  found  in  the 
collected  works  of  that  delightful  poet. 

19 


?52  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxrrit. 

Ah,  what  can  ail  thee,  wretched  wight, 

So  haggard  and  so  wo-begone .' 
The  gquirrel's  granary  is  full. 

And  the  harvest 's  done. 

I  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow, 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever  dew ; 
And  on  thy  cheek  a  fading  rose 

Fast  withereth  too. 

I  met  a  lady  in  the  meads. 

Full  beautiful,  a  fairy's  child ; 
Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light. 

And  her  eyes  were  wild. 

I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed. 

And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long; 
For  sideways  would  she  lean  and  sing 

A  fairy's  song. 

I  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 

And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone ; 
She  look'd  at  me  as  she  did  lore. 

And  made  sweet  moan. 

She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 

And  honey  wild,  and  manna  dew ; 
And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said, 

I  love  thee  true. 

She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot. 

And  there  she  gazed  and  sighed  deep. 

And  there  I  shut  her  wild  sad  eyes— 
So  kiss'd  to  sleep. 

And  there  we  slumber'd  on  the  moss. 

And  there  I  dream'd,  ah  wo  betide. 
The  latest  dream  I  ever  dream'd 

On  the  cold  hill  side. 

I  saw  pale  kings,  and  princes  too, 

Pale  warriors,  death-pale  were  they  all{ 

Who  cried,  "  La  Belle  Dame  Sans  Mercy 
Hath  thee  in  thrall !" 

I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloom 

With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide. 
And  I  awoke  and  found  me  here. 

On  th  '  cold  hill  side. 


CHAP.  XXXVII.]      LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERCY.  ?n 

And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  herp. 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 
Though  the  sedge  is  wither'd  from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing. 

Caviare  * 

*  "  Caviare  to  the  multitude." — Hamlet.  The  signature  was  of  Mr. 
Keats's  own  putting ;  a  touching  circumstance,  when  we  call  to  mind  the 
treatment  he  met  with,  and  consider  how  his  memory  has  triumphed  over 
it 


•'4  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxxvm 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

Of  sticks 

AMONG  other  comparative  injuries  which  we  are  accustomed  tr 
do  to  the  characters  of  things  animate  and  inanimate,  in  order 
to  gratify  our  human  vanity,  such  as  calling  a  rascal  a  dog 
(which  is  a  great  compliment),  and  saying  that  a  tyrant  makes 
a  beast  of  himself  (which  it  would  be  a  very  good  thing,  and  a 
lift  in  the  world,  if  he  could),  is  a  habit  in  which  some  persons 
indulge  themselves,  of  calling  insipid  things  or  persons  sticks. 
Such  and  such  a  one  is  said  to  write  a  stick  ;  and  such  another 
is  himself  called  a  stick  ; — a  poor  stick,  a  mere  stick,  a  stick  of 
a  fellow* 

We  protest  against  this  injustice  done  to  those  useful  and  once 
flourishing  sons  of  a  good  old  stock.  Take,  for  instance,  a  com- 
mon  cherry-stick,  which  is  one  of  the  favorite  sort.  In  the  first 
place,  it  is  a  very  pleasant  substance  to  look  at,  the  grain  run- 
ning round  it  in  glossy  and  shadowy  rings.  Then  it  is  of  primae- 
val antiquity,  handed  down  from  scion  to  scion  through  the  most 
flourishing  of  genealogical  trees.  In  the  third  place,  it  is  of 
Eastern  origin  ;  of  a  stock,  which  it  is  possible  may  have  fur- 
nished Haroun  Al  Raschid  with  a  djereed,  or  Mahomet  with  a 
camel-stick,  or  Xenophon  in  his  famous  retreat  with  fences,  or 
Xerxes,  with  tent-pins,  or  Alexandei  with  a  javelin,  or  Sardana- 
palus  with  tarts,  or  Solomon  with  a  simile  for  his  mistress'  lips, 
or  Jacob  with  a  crook,  or  Methusalem  with  shadow,  or  Zoroaster 
with  mathematical  instruments,  or  the  builders  of  Babel  with 
scaffolding.  Lastly,  how  do  you  know  but  that  you  may  have 
eaten  cherries  off  this  very  stick  ?  for  it  was  once  alive  with 
sap,  and  rustling  with  foliage,  and  powdered  with  blossoms,  and 
red  and  laughing  with  fruit.  Where  the  leathern  tassel  now 
hangs,  may  have  dangled  a  bunch  of  berries  ;  and  instead  of 
the  brass  ferule  poking  in  the  mud,  th «  tip  was  growing  into  the 
air  with  its  youngest  green. 


CHAP,  xxxvni.]  OF  STICKS.  215 

The  use  of  sticks  in  general  is  of  the  very  greatest  antiquity 
It  is  impossible  to  conceive  a  state  of  society  in  which  boughs 
should  not  be  plucked  from  trees  for  some  purpose  of  utility  or 
amusement.  Savages  use"  clubs,  hunters  require  lances,  and 
shepherds  their  crooks.  Then  came  the  sceptre,  which  is  ori- 
ginally  nothing  but  a  staff,  or  a  lance,  or  a  crook,  d-istinguished 
from  others.  The  Greek  word  for  sceptre  signifies  also  a  walk- 
ing-stick. A  mace,  however  plumped  up  and  disguised  with 
gilding  and  a  heavy  crown,  is  only  the  same  thing  in  the  hands 
of  an  inferior  ruler ;  and  so  are  all  other  sticks  used  in  office, 
from  the  baton  of  the  Grand  Constable  of  France  down  to  the 
tipstaff  of  a  constable  in  Bow-street.  As  the  shepherd's  dog  is 
the  origin  of  the  gentlest  whelp  that  lies  on  a  hearth-cushion,  and 
of  the  most  pompous  barker  that  jumps  about  a  pair  of  greys, 
so  the  merest  stick  used  by  a  modern  Arcadian,  when  he  is 
driving  his  flock  to  Leadenhall-market  with  a  piece  of  candle  in 
his  hat,  and  No.  554  on  his  arm,  is  the  first  great  parent  and 
original  of  all  authoritative  staves,  from  the  beadle's  cane 
wherewith  he  terrifies  charity-boys  who  eat  bull's-eyes  in 
church-time,  up  to  the  silver  mace  of  the  verger,  to  the  wands 
of  parishes  and  governors, — the  tasselled  staff,  wherewith  the 
Band-Major  so  loftily  picks  out  his  measured  way  before  the  mu- 
sicians, and  which  he  holds  up  when  they  are  to  cease ;  to  the 
White  Staff  of  the  Lord  Treasurer;  the  court-officer  emphati- 
cally called  the  Lord  Gold  Stick  ;  the  Bishop's  Crosier  (Pedum 
Episcopale),  whereby  he  is  supposed  to  pull  back  the  feet  of  his 
straying  flock ;  and  the  royal  and  imperial  sceptre  aforesaid, 
whose  holders,  formerly  called  Shepherds  of  the  people  [Tl.jtii^m 
Aowk)  were  seditiously  said  to  fleece  more  than  to  protect.  The 
Vaulting-Staff,  a  luxurious  instrument  of  exercise,  must  have 
been  used  in  times  immemorial  for  passing  streams  and  rough 
ground  with.  It  is  the  ancestor  of  the  staff  with  which  Pilgrims 
travelled.  The  Staff  and  Quarter-Staff  of  the  country  Robin 
Hoods  is  a  remnant  of  the  war-club.  So  is  the  Irish  Shilelah, 
which  a  friend  has  well  defined  to  be  "  a  stick  with  two  butt- 
ends."  The  originals  of  all  these,  that  are  not  extant  in  our 
own  country,  may  still  be  seen  wherever  there  are  nations  un- 
civilized.     The  Negro  Prince,  who  asked  our  countrymen  what 

19» 


216  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxxviir 

was  sain  of  him  in  Europe,  was  surrounded  in  state  with  a  parcel 
of  ragged  fellows  with  shilelahs  over  their  shoulders — Lord  Gold 
Sticks. 

But  sticks  have  been  great  favorites  with  civilized  as  well  as 
uncivilised  nations ;  only  the  former  have  used  them  more  for 
help  and  ornament.  The  Greeks  were  a  sceptropherous  people. 
Homer  probably  used  a  walking-stick  because  he  was  blind  ;  but 
we  have  it  on  authority  that  Socrates  did.  On  his  first  meeting 
with  Xenophon,  which  was  in  a  narrow  passage,  he  barred  up 
the  way  with  his  stick,  and  asked  him,  in  his  good-natured  man- 
ner, where  provisions  were  to  be  had.  Xenophon  having  told 
him,  he  asked  again  if  he  knew  where  virtue  and  wisdom  were 
to  be  had  ;  and  this  reducing  the  young  man  to  a  nonplus,  he 
said,  "Follow  me,  and  learn;"  which  Xenophon  did,  and  be- 
came the  great  man  we  have  all  heard  of.  The  fatherly  story 
of  Agesilaus,  who  was  caught  amusing  his  little  boy  with  riding 
on  a  stick,  and  asked  his  visitor  whether  he  was  a  father,  is  too 
well  known  for  repetition. 

There  is  an  illustrious  anecdote  connected  with  our  subject  in 
Roman  history.  The  highest  compliment  which  his  country- 
men thought  they  could  pay  to  the  first  Scipio,  was  to  call  him  a 
walking-stick ;  for  such  is  the  signification  of  his  name.  It  was 
given  him  for  the  filial  zeal  with  which  he  used  to  help  his  old 
father  about,  serving  his  decrepit  age  instead  of  a  staff".  But  the 
Romans  were  not  remarkable  for  sentiment.  What  we  hear  in 
general  of  their  sticks,  is  the  thumpings  which  servants  get  in 
their  plays  ;  and  above  all,  the  famous  rods  which  the  lictors 
carried,  and  which  being  actual  sticks,  must  have  inflicted  hor- 
rible dull  bruises  and  malignant  stripes.  They  were  pretty 
things,  it  must  be  confessed,  to  carry  before  the  chief  magis- 
trate !  just  as  if  the  King  or  Lord  Chancellor  were  to  be  preced- 
ed  by  a  cat-o'-nine-tails. 

Sticks  are  not  at  all  in  such  request  with  modern  times  as  '.hey 
were.  Formerly,  we  suspect,  most  of  the  poorer  ranks  in  Eng- 
land  used  to  carry  them,  both  on  account  of  the  prevalence  of 
manly  sports,  and  for  security  in  travelling;  for  before  the 
invention  of  posts  and  mail-coaches,  a  trip  to  Scotland  or 
Northumberland  was  a  thing  to  make  a  man  write  his  will. 


CHAP.  XXXVIII.]  OF  STICKS.  217 

As  they  came  to  be  ornamented,  fashion  adopted  them.  The 
Cavaliers  of  Charles  .the  First's  time  were  a  sticked  race,  as 
well  as  the  apostolic  divines  and  puritans,  who  appear  to  have 
carried  staves,  because  they  read  of  them  among  the  patriarchs. 
Charles  the  First,  when  at  his  trial,  held  out  his  stick  to  forbid 
the  Aitorney-General's  proceeding.  There  is  an  interesting 
little  story  connected  with  a  stick,  which  is  related  of  Andrew 
Marvell's  father  (worthy  of  such  a  son),  and  which,  as  it  is 
little  known,  we  will  repeat ;  though  it  respects  the  man  more 
than  the  machine.  He  had  been  visited  by  a  young  lady,  who 
in  spite  of  a  stormy  evening  persisted  in  returning  across  the 
Humber,  because  her  family  would  be  alarmed  at  her  absence. 
The  old  gentleman,  high-hearted  and  cheerful,  after  vainly  try- 
ing to  dissuade  her  from  perils  which  he  understood  better  than 
she,  resolved  in  his  gallantry  to  bear  her  company.  He  accord- 
ingly walked  with  her  down  to  the  shore,  and  getting  into  the 
boat,  threw  his  stick  to  a  friend,  with  a  request,  in  a  lively  tone 
of  voice,  that  he  would  preserve  it  for  a  keepsake.  He  then 
cried  out  merrily,  "  Ho-hoy  for  heaven  !"  and  put  off  with  his 
visitor.     They  were  drowned. 

As  commerce  increased,  exotic  sticks  grew  in  request  from 
the  Indies.  Hence  the  Bamboo,  the  Whanghee,  the  Jambee 
which  makes  such  a  genteel  figure  under  Mr.  Lilly's  auspices 
in  the  Tatler;  and  our  light  modern  cane,  which  the  Sunday 
stroller  buys  at  sixpence  the  piece,  with  a  twist  of  it  at  the  end 
for  a  handle.  The  physicians,  till  within  the  last  few  score  of 
years,  retained  among  other  fopperies  which  they  converted  into 
gravities,  the  wig  and  gold-headed  cane.  The  latter  had  been 
an  indispensable  sign-royal  of  fashion,  and  was  turned  to  infinite 
purposes  of  accomplished  gesticulation.  One  of  the  most  courtly 
personages  in  the  Rape  of  the  Lock  is 

Sir  Plume,  of  amber  snuff-box  justly  vain. 
And  the  nice  conduct  of  a  clouded  cane. 

Sir  Richard  Steele,  as  we  have  before  noticed,  is  reproached  by 
a  busy-body  of  those  times  for  a  habit  of  jerking  his  stick  again*' 
the  pavement  as  he  walked.  When  swords  were  abolished  by 
Act  of  Parliament,  the  tavern-boys  took  to  pinking  each  other, 


218  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxivin 

as  injuriously  as  they  could  well  manage,  with  their  walking, 
sticks.  Macklin  the  player  was  tried  for  his  life  for  poking  a 
man's  eye  out  in  this  way.  Perhaps  this  helped  to  bring  the 
stick  Into  disrepute  ;  for  the  use  of  it  seems  to  have  declined 
more  and  more,  till  it  is  now  confined  to  old  men,  and  a  few 
among  the  younger.  It  is  unsuitable  to  our  money-getting 
mode  of  rushing  hither  and  thither.  Instead  of  pinking  a  man'a 
ribs  or  so,  or  thrusting  out  his  eye  from  an  excess  of  the  jovial, 
we  break  his  heart  with  a  bankruptcy. 

Canes  became  so  common  before  the  decline  of  the  use  of 
sticks,  that  whenever  a  man  is  beaten  with  a  stick,  let  it  be  of 
what  sort  it  may,  it  is  still  common  to  say  that  he  has  had 
a  "  caning  :"  which  reminds  us  of  an  anecdote  more  agreeable 
than  surprising;  though  the  patient  doubtless  thought  the 
reverse.  A  gentleman,  who  was  remarkable  for  the  amenity 
of  his  manners,  accompanied  by  a  something  which  a  bully 
might  think  it  safe  to  presume  upon,  found  himself  compelled  to 
address  a  person  who  did  not  know  how  to  "  translate  his  style," 
in  the  following  words,  which  were  all  delivered  in  the  sweetest 
tone  in  the  world,  with  an  air  of  almost  hushing  gentility  : — 
"  Sir,  I  am  extremely  sorry — to  be  obliged  to  say, — that  you 
appear  to  have  a  very  erroneous  notion  of  the  manners  that 
become  your  situation  in  life ; — and  I  am  compelled  with  great 
reluctance  to  add"  (here  he  became  still  softer  and  more  deli- 
cate) "  that,  if  you  do  not  think  fit,  upon  reflection,  to  alter  this 
very  extraordinary   conduct  towards  a  gentleman,  I  shall  be 

under  the  necessity  of caning  you."     The  other  treated  the 

thing  as  a  joke ;  and  to  the  delight  of  the  bystanders,  received 
a  very  grave  drubbing. 

There  are  two  eminent  threats  connected  with  caning,  in  the 
history  of  Dr.  Johnson.  One  was  from  himself,  when  he  was 
told  thatFoote  intended  to  mimic  him  on  the  stage.  He  replied, 
that  if  "the  dog"  ventured  to  play  his  tricks  with  him,  he  would 
step  out  of  the  stage-box,  chastise  him  before  the  audience,  and 
then  throw  himself  upon  their  candor  and  common  sympathy. 
Foote  desistec',  as  he  had  good  reason  to  do.  The  Doctor  would 
have  read  hi  n  a  stout  lesson,  and  then  made  a  speech  to  the 
audience  as    forcible ;   so   that  the  theatrical    annals    have    to 


CHA.f.  XXXVIII.]  OF  STICKS.  219 

regret,  that  the  subject  ana  Foote's  shoulders  were  not  afforded 
him  to  expatiate  upon.  It  would  have  been  a  fine  involuntary 
piece  of  acting, — the  part  of  Scipio  by  Dr.  Johnson. — The  other 
threat  was  against  the  Doctor  himself  from  Macpherson,  the 
compounder  of  Ossian.  It  was  for  denying  the  authenticity  of 
that  work ;  a  provocation  the  more  annoying,  inasmuch  as  he 
did  not  seem  duly  sensible  of  its  merits.  Johnson  replied  to 
Macpherson's  letter  by  one  of  contemptuous  brevity  and  pith  ; 
and  contented  himself  with  carrying  about  a  large  stick,  with 
which  he  intended  to  repel  Macpherson  in  case  of  an  assault. 
Had  they  met,  it  would  have  been  like  "  two  clouds  over  the 
Caspian;"   for  both  were  large-built  men. 

We  recollect  another  bacular  Johnsonian  anecdote.  When 
he  was  travelling  in  Scotland,  he  lost  a  huge  stick  of  his  in  the 
little  treeless  island  of  Mull.  Boswell  told  him  he  would  recover 
it:  but  the  Doctor  shook  his  head.  <'No'no,"  said  he;  "let  any- 
body in  Mull  get  possession  of  it,  and  it  will  never  be  restored. 
Consider,  sir,  the  value  of  such  a  piece  of  timber  h^re." 

The  most  venerable  sticks  now  surviving  are  the  smooth 
amber-colored  canes,  in  the  possession  of  old  ladies.  They  have 
sometimes  a  gold  head,  but  oftener  a  crook  of  ivory.  But  they 
have  latterly  been  much  displaced  by  light  umbrellas,  the  han- 
dles of  which  are  imitations  of  them  ;  and  these  are  gradually 
retreating  before  the  young  parasol,  especially  about  town.  The 
old  ladies  take  the  wings  of  the  stage-coaches,  and  are  run  away 
with  by  John  Pullen,  in  a  style  of  infinite  convenience.  The 
other  sticks  in  use  are  for  the  most  part  of  cherry,  oak,  and  crab, 
and  seldom  adorned  with  more  than  a  leathern  tassel :  often 
with  nothing.  Bamboo  and  other  canes  do  not  abound,  as  might 
be  expected  from  our  intercourse  with  India ;  but  commerce  in 
this  as  in  other  respects  has  overshot  its  mark.  People  cannot 
afford  to  use  sticks,  any  more  than  bees  could  in  their  hives. 
Of  the  common  sabbatical  cane  we  have  already  spoken.  There 
is  a  sufficing  little  manual,  equally  light  and  lissom,  yclept  an 
ebony  switch ;   but  we  have  not  seen  it  often. 

That  sticks,  however,  are  not  to  be  despised  by  the  leisurely, 
any  one  who  has  known  what  it  is  to  want  words,  or  to  slice  off 
the  head  of  a  thistle,  will  allow.     The  utility  of  the  stick  seem 


220  THE  INDICATOR.  [chat   xxxvin 

divisible  into  three  heads ;  first,  to  give  a  general  consc'ousness 
of  power ;  second,  which  may  be  called  a  part  of  the  first,  to 
help  the  demeanor ;  and  third,  which  may  be  called  a  part  of 
the  second,  to  assist  a  man  over  the  gaps  of  speech — the  little 
awkward  intervals,  called  want  of  ideas. 

Deprive  a  man  of  his  stick,  who  is  accustomed  to  carry  one, 
and  with  what  a  diminished  sense  of  vigor  and  gracefulness  he 
issues  out  of  his  house  !  Wanting  his  stick,  he  wants  himself. 
His  self-possession,  like  Acres's  on  the  duel-ground,  has  gone 
out  of  his  fingers'  ends  ;  but  restore  it  him,  and  how  he  resumes 
his  energy!  If  a  common  walking-stick,  he  cherishes  the  top  of 
it  with  his  fingers,  putting  them  out  and  back  again,  with  a  fresh 
desire  to  feel  it  in  his  palm  !  How  he  strikes  it  against  the 
ground,  and  feels  power  come  back  to  his  arm !  How  he 
makes  the  pavement  ring  with  the  ferule,  if  in  a  street ;  or  de- 
capitates the  downy  thistles  aforesaid,  if  in  a  field  !  Then  if  it 
be  a  switch,  how  firmly  he  jerks  his  step  at  the  first  infliction  of 
it  on  the  air  !  How  he  quivers  the  point  of  it  as  he  goes,  holding 
the  handle  with  a  straight-dropped  arm  and  a  tight  grasp!  How 
his  foot  keeps  time  to  the  switches !  How  he  twigs  the  luckless 
pieces  of  lilac  or  other  shrubs,  that  peep  out  of  a  garden  railing  ! 
And  if  a  sneaking-looking  dog  is  coming  by,  how  he  longs  to 
exercise  his  despotism  and  his  moral  sense  at  once,  by  giving  him 
an  invigorating  twinge ! 

But  what  would  certain  men  of  address  do  without  their  cane 
or  switch  ?  There  is  an  undoubted  Rhabdosophy,  Sceptrosophy, 
or  Wisdom  of  the  Stick,  besides  the  famous  Divining  Rod,  with 
which  people  used  to  discover  treasures  and  fountains.  It  sup- 
plies a  man  with  inaudible  remarks,  and  an  inexpressible  number 
of  graces.  Sometimes,  breathing  between  his  teeth,  he  will 
twirl  the  end  of  it  upon  his  stretched-out  toe  ;  and  this  means, 
that  he  has  an  infinite  number  of  easy  and  powerful  things  to  say, 
if  he  had  a  mind.  Sometimes  he  holds  it  upright  between  his 
knees,  and  tattoos  it  against  his  teeth  or  underlip,  which  implies 
that  he  meditates  coolly.  On  other  occasions  he  switches  the 
side  of  his  boot  with  it,  which  announces  elegance  in  general. 
Lastly,  if  he  has  not  a  bon-mot  ready  in  answer  to  one,  he  has 
only  to  thrust  his  stick  at  your  ribs,  and  say,  "  Ah  !  you  rogue  !" 


CHAP.  XXXVIII.]  OF  STICKS.  821 

which  sets  him  above  you  in  an  instant,  as  a  sort  of  patronising 
wit,  who  can  dispense  with  the  necessity  of  joking. 

At  the  same  time,  to  give  it  its  due  zest  in  life,  a  stick  has  its 
inconveniences.  If  you  have  yellow  gloves  on,  and  drop  it  in 
the  mud,  a  too  hasty  recovery  is  awkward.  To  have  it  stick 
between  the  stones  of  a  pavement  is  not  pleasant,  especially  if  it 
snap  the  ferule  off;  or  more  especially  if  an  old  gentleman  or 
lady  is  coming  behind  you,  and  after  making  them  start  back 
with  winking  eyes,  it  threatens  to  trip  them  up.  To  lose  the 
ferule  on  a  country  road,  renders  the  end  liable  to  the  growth  of 
a  sordid  brush,  which,  not  having  a  knife  with  you,  or  a  shop  in 
which  to  borrow  one,  goes  pounding  the  wet  up  against  your 
legs.  In  a  crowded  street  you  may  have  the  stick  driven  into  a 
large  pane  of  glass ;  upon  which  an  unthinking  tradesman, 
utterly  indifferent  to  a  chain  of  events,  issues  forth  and  demands 
twelve  and  sixpence. 


892  THE  INDICATOR,  [cha-.  x»uz. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

Of  the  Sight  of  Shops. 

THotTGH  we  are  such  lovers  of  the  country,  we  can  admire  Lon- 
don in  some  points  of  view  ;  and  among  others,  from  the  enter- 
tainment to  be  derived  from  its  shops.  Their  variety  and  bril- 
liancy can  hardly  fail  of  attracting  the  most  sluggish  attention  : 
and  besides  reasons  of  this  kind,  we  can  never  look  at  some  of 
them  without  thinking  of  the  gallant  figure  they  make  in  the 
Arabian  Nights,  with  their  Bazaars  and  Bezesteins ;  where  the 
most  beautiful  of  unknowns  goes  shopping  in  a  veil,  and  the 
most  graceful  of  drapers  is  taken  blindfold  to  see  her.  He  goes, 
too,  smitten  at  heart  to  think  of  the  danger  of  his  head  ;  and 
finds  her  seated  among  her  slaves  (exquisite  themselves,  only 
very  inferior),  upon  which  she  encourages  him  to  sit  near  her, 
and  lutes  are  played ;  upon  which  he  sighs,  and  cannot  help 
looking  tenderly  ;  upon  which  she  claps  her  hands,  and  a  charm- 
ing collation  is  brought  in  ;  upon  which  they  eat,  but  not  much. 
A  dance  ensues,  and  the  ocular  sympathy  is  growing  tenderer, 
when  an  impossible  old  woman  appears,  and  says  that  the  Sultan 
is  coming.  Alas  !  How  often  have  we  been  waked  up,  in  the 
person  of  the  young  draper  or  jeweller,  by  that  ancient  objec- 
tion  !  How  have  we  received  the  lady  in  the  veil,  through 
which  we  saw  nothing  but  her  dark  eyes  and  rosy  cheeks  !  How 
have  we  sat  cross-legged  on  cushions,  hearing  or  handling  the 
lute,  whose  sounds  faded  away  like  our  enamored  eyes  !  How 
often  have  we  not  lost  our  hearts  and  left-hands,  like  one  of  the 
Calendars  ?  Or  an  eye,  like  another  ?  Or  a  head  ;  and  resum- 
ed it  at  the  end  of  the  story  ?  Or  slept  (no,  not  slept)  in  the 
Sultan's  garden  at  Schiraz  with  the  fair  Persian. 

But  to  return  (as  well  as  such  enamored  persons  can)  to  our 
shops.     We  prefer  the  country  a  million  times  ")ver  for  walking 


CHAP.  XXXIX.]  OF  THE  SIGHT  OF  SHOPS.  223 

in  generally,  especially  if  we  have  the  friends  in  it  that  enjoy  it 
as  well ;  but  there  are  seasons  when  the  very  streets  may  vie 
with  it.  If  you  have  been  solitary,  for  instance,  for  a  long  time, 
it  is  pleasant  to  get  among  your  fellow-creatures  again,  even  to 
be  jostled  and  elbowed.  If  you  live  in  town,  and  the  weather 
is  showery,  you  may  get  out  in  the  intervals  of  rain,  and  then  a 
quickly-dried  pavement  and  a  set  of  brilliant  shops  are  pleasant. 
Nay,  we  have  known  days,  even  in  spring,  when  a  street  shall 
outdo  the  finest  aspects  of  the  country ;  but  then  it  is  only  when 
the  ladies  are  abroad,  and  there  happens  to  be  a  run  of  agreea- 
ble faces  that  day.  For  whether  it  is  fancy  or  not,  or  whether 
certain  days  do  not  rather  bring  out  certain  people,  it  is  a  com- 
mon remark,  that  one  morning  you  shall  meet  a  succession  of 
good  looks,  and  another  encounter  none  but  the  reverse.  We 
do  not  merely  speak  of  handsome  faces;  but  of  those  which  are 
charming,  or  otherwise,  whatever  be  the  cause.  We  suppose, 
that  the  money-takers  are  all  abroad  one  day,  and  the  heart- 
takers  the  other. 

It  is  to  be  observed,  that  we  are  not  speaking  of  utility  in  this 
article,  except  indeed  the  great  utility  of  agreeableness.  A 
candid  leather-cutter  therefore  will  pardon  us,  if  do  we  not  find 
anything  very  attractive  in  his  premises.  So  will  his  friend  the 
shoemaker,  who  is  bound  to  like  us  rural  pedestrians.  A  stationer 
too,  on  obvious  accounts,  will  excuse  us  for  thinking  his  a  very 
dull  and  bald-headed  business.  We  cannot  bear  the  horribly 
neat  monotony  of  his  shelves,  with  their  load  of  virgin  paper, 
thoir  slates  and  slate  pencils  that  set  one's  teeth  on  edge, 
their  pocket-books,  and  above  all,  their  detestable  ruled  account- 
books,  which  at  once  remind  one  of  the  necessity  of  writing, 
and  the  impossibility  of  writing  anything  pleasant  on  such 
pages.  The  only  agreeable  thing,  in  a  stationer's  shop  when  it 
has  it,  is  the  ornamental  work,  the  card-racks,  hand-screens,  <tec., 
which  remind  us  of  the  fair  morning  fingers  that  paste  and  gild 
such  things,  and  surprise  their  aunts  with  presents  of  flowery 
boxes.  But  we  grieve  to  add,  that  the  prints  which  the  station- 
ers furnish  for  such  elegancies,  are  not  in  the  very  highest  taste. 
Tlify  are  apt  to  deviate  too  scrupulously  from  the  originals. 
Their  well-known  heads  become  too  anonymous.     Their  young 

20 


224  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxxix. 

ladies  have  casts  in  their  eyes,  a  little  too  much  on  one  side  even 
for  the  sidelong  divinities  of  Mr.  Harlowe. 

In  a  hatter's  shop  we  can  see  nothing  but  the  hats ;  and  the 
reader  is  acquainted  with  our  pique  against  them.  The  beaver 
is  a  curious  animal,  but  the  idea  of  it  is  not  entertaining  enough 
to  convert  a  window  full  of  those  requisite  nuisances  into  an 
agreeable  spectacle.  It  is  true,  a  hatter,  like  some  other  trades- 
men, may  be  pleasanter  himself,  by  reason  of  the  adversity  of 
his  situation.  We  cannot  say  more  for  the  crueZ-shop  next  door, 
a  name  justly  provocative  of  a  pun.  It  is  customary,  however, 
to  have  sign-paintings  of  Adam  and  Eve  at  these  places;  which 
is  some  relief  to  the  monotony  of  the  windows  ;  only  they  remind 
us  but  too  well  of  these  cruel  necessities  to  which  they  brought 
us.  The  baker's  next  ensuing  is  a  very  dull  shop,  much  inferior 
to  the  gingerbread  baker's,  whose  parliament  we  used  to  munch 
at  school.  The  tailor's  makes  one  as  melancholy  to  look  at  it,  as 
the  sedentary  persons  within.  The  hosier's  is  worse ;  particu- 
larly if  it  has  a  Golden  Leg  over  it ;  for  that  precious  limb  is 
certainly  not  symbolical  of  the  weaver's.  The  windows,  half 
board  and  half  dusty  glass,  which  abound  in  the  City,  can 
scarcely  be  turned  to  a  purpose  of  amusement,  even  by  the 
most  attic  of  dry-salters.  We  own  we  have  half  a  longing  to 
break  them,  and  let  in  the  light  of  nature  upon  their  recesses ; 
whether  they  belong  to  those  more  piquant  gentlemen,  or  to 
bankers,  or  any  other  high  and  wholesale  personages.  A  light 
in  one  of  these  windows  in  the  morning  is,  to  us,  one  of  the  very 
dismallest  reflections  on  humanity.  We  wish  .we  could  say 
something  for  a  tallow-chandler's,  because  everybody  abuses  it; 
but  we  cannot.  It  must  bear  its  fate  like  the  man.  A  good 
deal  might  be  said  in  behalf  of  candle-light ;  but  in  passing 
from  shop  to  shop,  the  variety  is  so  great,  that  the  imagination 
has  not  time  to  dwell  on  any  one  in  particular.  The  ideas  they 
suggest  must  be  obvious  and  on  the  surface.  A  grocer's  and 
tea-dealer's  is  a  good  thing.  It  fills  the  mind  instantly  with 
a  variety  of  pleasant  tastes,  as  the  ladies  in  Italy  on  certain 
holidays  pelt  the  gentlemen  with  sweetmeats.  An  undertaker's 
is  as  great  a  baulk  to  one's  spirits,  as  a  loose  stone  to  one's  foot. 
It  gives  one  a  deadly  jerk.     But  it  is  pleasant  upon  the  whole 


CHAP.  XXXIX.3  OF  THE  SIGHT  OF  SHOPS  223 

to  see  the  inhabitant  looking  carelessly  out  of  doors,  or  hammer- 
ing while  humming  a  tune ;  for  why  should  he  die  a  death  at 
every  fresh  order  for  a  coffin  ?  An  undertaker  walking  mer- 
rily drunk  by  the  side  of  a  hearse,  is  a  horrid  object ;  but  an 
undertaker  singing  and  hammering  in  his  shop,  is  only  rapping 
death  himself  on  the  knuckles.  The  dead  are  not  there ;  the 
altered  fellow-creature  is  not  there  ;  but  only  the  living  man, 
and  the  abstract  idea  of  death  ;  and  he  may  defy  that  as  much 
as  he  pleases.  An  apothecary's  is  the  more  deadly  thing  of  the 
two ;  for  the  coffin  may  be  made  for  a  good  old  age,  but  the 
draught  and  the  drug  are  for  the  sickly.  An  apothecary's  looks 
well,  however,  at  night-time,  on  account  of  the  colored  glasses. 
It  is  curious  to  see  two  or  three  people  talking  together  in  the 
light  of  one  of  them,  and  looking  profoundly  blue.  There  are 
two  good  things  in  the  Italian  warehouse, — its  name  and  its 
olives;  but  it  is  chiefly  built  up  of  gout.  Nothing  can  be  got 
out  of  a  brazier's  windows,  except  by  a  thief:  but  we  under- 
stand that  it  is  a  good  place  to  live  at  for  those  who  cannot  pro- 
cure water-falls.  A  music-shop  with  its  windows  full  of  title- 
pages,  is  provokingly  insipid  to  look  at,  considering  the  quantity 
of  slumbering  enchantment  inside,  which  only  wants  waking.  A 
bookseller's  is  interesting,  especially  if  the  books  are  very  old  or 
very  new,  and  have  frontispieces.  But  let  no  author,  with  or 
without  money  in  his  pocket,  trust  himself  in  the  inside,  unless, 
like  the  bookseller,  he  has  too  much  at  home.  An  author  is  like 
a  baker  ;  it  is  for  him  to  make  the  sweets,  and  others  to  buy  and 
enjoy  them.  And  yet  not  so.  Let  us  not  blaspheme  the  "  divi- 
nity that  stirs  within  us."  The  old  comparison  of  the  bee  is 
better ;  for  even  if  his  toil  at  last  is  his  destruction,  and  he  iS 
killed  in  order  to  be  plundered,  he  has  had  the  range  of  nature 
before  he  dies.  His  has  been  the  summer  air,  and  the  sunshine, 
and  the  flowers ;  and  gentle  ears  have  listened  to  him,  and  gen- 
tle eyes  have  been  upon  him.  Let  others  eat  his  honey  that 
please,  so  that  he  has  had  his  morsel  and  his  song. — A  book-stall 
is  better  for  an  author  than  a  regular  shop ;  for  the  books  are 
cheaper,  the  choice  often  better  and  more  ancient ;  and  he  may 
look  at  them,  and  move  on  without  the  horrors  of  not  buying 
anylliiiig  ;   unless  indeed  the  master  or  mistress  stands  looking  ,*■' 


•226  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxxix 

him  from  the  shop-door  ;  which  is  a  vile  practice.  It  is  neces- 
sary, we  suppose,  to  guard  against  pilferers ;  but  then  ought  not 
a  stall-keeper,  of  any  perception,  to  know  one  of  us  real  mag- 
nanimous spoilers  of  our  gloves  from  a  sordid  thief?  A  tavern 
and  coffee-house  is  a  pleasant  sight,  from  its  sociality ;  not  to 
mention  the  illustrious  club  memories  of  the  times  of  Shakspeare 
and  the  Tatlers.  We  confess  that  the  commonest  public-house 
in  town  is  not  such  an  eyesore  to  us  as  it  is  to  some.  There  may 
be  a  little  too  much  drinking  and  roaring  going  on  in  the  middle 
of  the  week  ;  but  what,  in  the  mean  time,  are  pride,  and  ava- 
rice, and  all  the  unsocial  vices  about  ?  Before  we  object  to 
public-houses,  and  above  all  to  their  Saturday  evening  recrea- 
tions, we  must  alter  the  systems  that  make  them  a  necessary 
comfort  to  the  poor  and  laborious.  Till  then,  in  spite  of  the 
vulgar  part  of  the  polite,  we  shall  have  an  esteem  for  the  "Devil 
and  the  Bag  o'  Nails  ;"  and  like  to  hear,  as  we  go  along  on  Satur- 
day night,  the  applauding  knocks  on  the  table  that  follow  the  song 
of  "  Lovely  Nan,"  or  "  Brave  Captain  Death,"  or  "  Tobacco  is 
an  Indian  Weed,"  or  "  Why,  Soldiers,  why  ;"  or  "  Says  Plato, 
why  should  man  be  vain;"  or  that  judicious  and  unanswerable 
ditty  commencing 

Now  what  can  man  more  desire 
Nor  sitting  by  a  sea-coal  fire . 
And  on  his  knees,  &c. 

We  will  even  refuse  to  hear  anything  against  a  gin-shop,  till 
the  various  systems  of  the  moralists  and  economists  are  dis- 
cussed, and  the  virtuous  leave  off  seduction  and  old  port.  In 
the  mean  time,  we  give  up  to  anybody's  dislike  the  butcher's  and 
fishmonger's.  And  yet  see  how  things  go  by  comparison.  We 
remember,  in  our  boyhood,  a  lady  from  the  West  Indies,  of  a 
very  delicate  and  high-bred  nature,  who  could  find  nothing  about 
our  streets  that  more  excited  her  admiration  than  the  butchers' 
shops.  She  had  no  notion,  from  what  she  had  seen  in  her  own 
country,  that  so  ugly  a  business  could  be  carried  on  with  so 
much  neatness,  and  become  actually  passable.  An  open  potato- 
shop  is  a  dull  bleak-looking  place,  except  in  the  height  of  sum- 
mer.    A   cheesemonger's  is  then   at  its  height  of  annoyance, 


CHAP.  XXXIX.]  OF  THE  SIGHT  OF  SHOPS.  227 

unless  you  see  a  pavior  or  bricklaj  er  coming  out  with  his  three 
penn'orth  on  his  bread — a  better  sight  than  the  glutton's  wad- 
dling away  from  the  fishmonger's.  A  poulterer's  is  a  dead- 
bodied  business,  with  its  birds  and  their  lax  necks.  We  dislike 
to  see  a  bird  anywhere  but  in  the  open  air,  alive  and  quick.  Of 
all  creatures,  restraint  and  death  become  its  winged  vivacity 
the  least.  For  the  same  reason  we  hate  aviaries.  Dog-shops 
are  tolerable.  A  cook-shop  does  not  mingle  the  agreeable  with 
the  useful.  We  hate  its  panes,  with  Ham  and  Beef  scratched 
upon  them  in  white  letters.  An  ivory-turner's  is  pleasant,  with 
its  red  and  white  chessmen,  and  little  big-headed  Indians  on 
elephants ;  so  is  a  toy-shop,  with  its  endless  delights  for  chil- 
dren. A  coach-maker's  is  not  disagreeable,  if  you  can  see  the 
painting  and  panels.  An  umbrella-shop  only  reminds  one  of  a 
rainy  day,  unless  it  is  a  shop  for  sticks  also,  which,  as  we  have 
already  shown,  are  meritorious  articles.  The  curiosity-shop  is 
sometimes  very  amusing,  with  its  mandarins,  stuffed  birds,  odd 
old  carved  faces,  and  a  variety  of  things  as  indescribable  as 
bits  of  dreams.  The  green-grocer  carries  his  recommendation 
in  his  epithet.  The  hair-dressers  are  also  interesting  as  far  as 
their  hair  goes,  but  not  as  their  heads — we  mean  the  heads  in 
their  windows.  One  of  the  shops  we  like  least  is  an  angling 
repository,  with  its  rod  for  a  sign,  and  a  fish  dancing  in  the 
agonies  of  death  at  the  end  of  it.  We  really  cannot  see  what 
equanimity  there  is  in  jerking  a  lacerated  carp  out .  ^  water  by 
the  jaws,  merely  because  it  has  not  the  power  of  making  a 
noise  ;  for  we  presume  that  the  most  philosophic  of  anglers 
would  hardly  delight  in  catching  shrieking  fish.  An  optician's 
is  not  very  amusing,  unless  it  has  those  reflecting-glasses  in 
which  you  see  your  face  run  off  on  each  side  into  attenuated 
width,  or  upwards  and  downwards  in  the  same  manner,  in 
dreary  longitude.  A  saddler's  is  good,  because  it  reminds  one 
of  horses.  A  Christian  sword-maker's  or  gun-maker's  is  edify- 
ing. A  glass-shop  is  a  beautiful  spectacle ;  it  reminds  one  of 
the  splendors  of  a  fairy  palace.  We  like  a  blacksmith's  for  the 
sturdy  looks  and  thumpings  of  the  men,  the  swarthy  color,  the 
fiery  sparkles  and  the  thunder-breathing  throat  of  the  furnace. 
Of  other  houses  of  traffic,  not  common  in  the  streets,  there  is 

20* 


228  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xxxix 

something  striking  to  us  in  the  large,  well-conditioned  horses  of 
the  brewers,  and  the  rich  smoke  rolling  from  out  their  chimneys. 
We  also  greatly  admire  a  wharf,  with  its  boats,  barrels,  and 
packages,  and  the  fresh  air  from  the  water,  not  to  mention  the 
smell  of  pitch.  It  carries  us  at  once  a  hundred  rniles  over  the 
water.  For  similar  reasons,  the  crabbedest  old  lane  has  its 
merits  in  our  eyes,  if  there  is  a  sail-maker's  in  it,  or  a  boat- 
builder's  and  water  at  the  end.  How  used  old  Roberts  of 
Lambeth  to  gratify  the  aspiring  modesty  of  our  school-coats, 
when  he  welcomed  us  down  to  his  wherries  and  captains  on  a 
holiday,  and  said,  "  Blue  against  Black  at  any  time,"  meaning 
the  Westminster  boys  !  And  the  colleges  will  ratify  his  praise, 
taking  into  consideration  the  difference  of  the  numbers  that  go 
there  from  either  cloisters.  .  But  of  all  shops  in  the  streets  a 
print-seller's  pleases  us  the  most.  We  would  rather  pay  a  shil- 
ling to  Mr.  Colnaghi,  Mr.  Molteno,  or  Messieurs  Moon  and  Boys, 
to  look  at  their  windows  on  one  of  their  best-furnished  days, 
than  we  would  for  many  an  exhibition.  We  can  see  fine  en- 
gravings there,  translations  from  Raphael  and  Titian,  which 
are  newer  than  hundreds  of  originals.  We  do  not  despise  a 
pastry-cook's,  though  we  would  rather  not  eat  tarts  and  puffs 
before  the  half-averted  face  of  the  prettiest  of  accountants, 
especially  with  a  beggar  watching  and  praying  all  the  while  at 
the  door.  We  need  not  expatiate  on  the  beauties  of  a  florist's, 
where  you  see  unwithering  leaves,  and  roses  made  immortal. 
A  dress  warehouse  is  sometimes  really  worth  stopping  at,  for  its 
flowered  draperies  and  richly-colored  shawls.  But  one's  plea- 
sure is  apt  to  be  disturbed  (ye  powers  of  gallantry  !  bear  witness 
to  the  unwilling  pen  that  writes  it)  by  the  fair  faces  that  come 
forth,  and  the  half-polite,  half-execrating  expression  of  the 
tradesman  that  bows  them  out ;  for  here  takes  place  the  chief 
enjoyment  of  the  mystery  yclept  shopping ;  and  here,  while 
some  ladies  give  the  smallest  trouble  unwillingly,  others  have 
an  infinity  of  things  turned  over,  for  the  mere  purpose  of  wastv 
ing  their  own  time  and  the  shopman's.  We  have  read  of  f 
choice  of  a  wife  by  cheese.  It  is  difficult  to  speak  of  preference 
in  such  matters,  and  all  such  single  modes  of  trial  must  be  some 
thing  equivocal ;  but  we  must  say,  that  of  all   modes  of  thf 


CHAP,  xxxix.l  OF  THE  SIGHT  OF  SHOPS.  '.sw 

kind,  we  should  desire  no  better  way  of  seeing  what  ladies  we 
admired  most,  and  whom  least,  than  by  witnessing  this  trial  of 
them  at  a  linen-draper's  counter. 


230  THE  INDICATOR.  fcHA* 


CHAPTER  XL. 

A  nearer  View  ol  some  of  the  Shops. 

In  the  general  glance  that  we  have  taken  at  shops,  we  found 
ourselves  unwillingly  compelled  to  pass  some  of  them  too 
quickly.  It  is  the  object  therefore  of  the  present  article  to  enter 
into  those  more  attractive  thresholds,  and  look  a  little  about  us. 
We  imagine  a  fine  day ;  time,  about  noon ;  scene,  any  good 
brilliant  street.  The  ladies  are  abroad  in  white  and  green ;  the 
beaux  lounging,  conscious  of  their  waists  and  neckcloths ;  the 
busy  pushing  onward,  conscious  of  their  bills ;  the  dogs  and 
coaches — but  we  must  reserve  this  out-of-door  view  of  the  streets 
for  a  separate  article. 

To  begin  then,  where  our  shopping  experience  began,  with 
the  toy-shop : 

Visions  of  glory,  spare  our  aching  sight ! 

Ye  just-breech'd  ages,  crowd  not  on  our  soul ! 

We  still  seem  to  have  a  lively  sense  of  the  smell  of  that  gor- 
geous red  paint,  which  was  on  the  handle  of  our  first  wooden 
sword !  The  pewter  guard  also — how  beautifully  fretted  and 
like  silver  did  it  look !  How  did  we  hang  it  round  our  shoulder 
by  the  proud  belt  of  an  old  ribbon  ; — then  feel  it  well  suspended  ; 
then  draw  it  out  of  the  sheath,  eager  to  cut  down  four  savage 
men  for  ill-using  ditto  of  damsels!  An  old  muff  made  an  ex- 
cellent grenadier's  cap ;  or  one's  hat  and  feather,  with  the 
assistance  of  three  surreptitious  large  pins,  became  fiercely 
modern  and  military.  There  it  is,  in  that  corner  of  the  window 
— the  same  identical  sword,  to  all  appearance,  which  kept  ua 
awake  the  first  night  behind  our  pillow.  We  still  feel  ourselves 
little  boys,  while  standing  in  this  shop ;  and  for  that  matter,  so 
we  do  on -Other  occasions.  A  field  has  as  much  merit  in  our 
eyes,  and  gingerbread  almost  as  much  in  our  mouths,  as  at  that 


CHAP.  XL.J  A  NEARER  VIEW  OF  SOME  OF  THE  SHOPS.  'i.'il 

daisy-plucking  and  cake-eating  period  of  life.  There  is  the 
irigger-rattling  gun  fine  of  its  kind,  but  not  so  complete  a  thing 
as  the  sword.  Its  memories  are  not  so  ancient:  for  Alexander 
or  St.  George  did  not  fight  with  a  musket.  Neither  is  it  so  true 
a  thing  ;  it  is  not  "  like  life."  The  trigger  is  too  much  like  that 
of  a  cross-bow;  and  the  pea  which  it  shoots,  however  hard, 
produces  even  to  the  imaginative  faculties  of  boyhood  a  humili- 
ating  flash  of  the  mock-heroic.  It  is  difficult  to  fancy  a  dragon 
killed  with  a  pea :  but  the  shape  and  appurtenances  of  the 
Bword  being  genuine,  the  whole  sentiment  of  massacre  is  as 
much  in  its  wooden  blade,  as  if  it  were  steel  of  Damascus. 
The  drum  is  still  more  real,  though  not  so  heroic. — In  the  corner 
opposite  are  battle-doors  and  shuttle-cocks,  which  have  their 
maturer  beauties ;  balls,  which  possess  the  additional  zest  of  the 
danger  of  breaking  people's  windows ; — ropes,  good  for  swing- 
ing and  skipping,  especially  the  long  ones  which  others  turn  for 
you,  while  you  run  in  a  masterly  manner  up  and  down,  or  skip 
in  one  spot  with  an  easy  and  endless  exactitude  of  toe,  looking 
ulternately  at  their  conscious  faces ; — blood-allies,  with  which 
he  possessor  of  a  crisp  finger  and  thumb-knuckle  causes  the 
smitten  marbles  to  vanish  out  of  the  ring ;  kites,  which  must 
appear  to  more  vital  birds  a  ghastly  kind  of  fowl,  with  their 
grim  long  white  faces,  no  bodies,  and  endless  tails ;  cricket-bats, 
manly  to  handle  ; — trap-bats,  a  genteel  inferiority  ; — swimming- 
corks,  despicable ;  horses  on  wheels,  an  imposition  on  the  infant 
public ; — rocking  horses,  too  much  like  Pegasus,  ardent  yet 
never  getting  on ; — Dutch  toys,  so  like  life,  that  they  ought  to 
be  better ; — Jacob's  ladders,  flapping  down  one  over  another 
their  tintinnabulary  shutters ; — dissected  maps,  from  which  the 
infant  statesmen  may  learn  how  to  dovetail  provinces  and  king- 
doms ; — paper  posture-makers,  who  hitch  up  their  knees  against 
their  shoulder-blades,  and  dangle  their  legs  like  an  opera  dancer ; 
— Lilliputian  plates,  dishes,  and  other  household  utensils,  in 
which  a  grand  dinner  is  served  up  out  of  half  an  apple  ; — boxes 
of  paints,  to  color  engravings  with,  always  beyond  the  outline ; 
ditto  of  bricks,  a  very  sensible  and  lasting  toy,  which  we  except 
from  a  grudge  we  have  against  the  gravity  of  infant  geome- 
tries  J — whips,  very  useful  for  cutting   people's  eyes  unawares 


232  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xi, 

— hoops,  one  of  the  most  ancient  as  well  as  excellent  of  toys; — 
sheets  of  pictures,  from  A  apple-pie  up  to  farming,  military, 
and  zoological  exhibitions,  always  taking  care  that  the  Fly  is  as 
large  as  the  Elephant,  and  the  letter  X  exclusively  appropriated 
to  Xerxes; — musical  deal-boxes,  rather  complaining  than  sweet, 
and  more  like  a  peal  of  bodkins  than  bells ; — penny  trumpets, 
awful  at  Bartlemy-tide ; — Jew's  harps,  that  thrill  and  breathe 
between  the  lips  like  a  rnetal  tongue  ; — carts — carriages — hobby, 
horses,  upon  which  the  infant  equestrian  prances  about  proudly 
on  his  own  feet ; — in  short,  not  to  go  through  the  whole  repre- 
sentative body  of  existence — dolls,  which  are  so  dear  to  the 
maternal  instincts  of  little  girls.  We  protest,  however,  against 
that  abuse  of  them,  which  makes  them  full-dressed  young  ladies 
in  body,  while  they  remain  infant  in  face  ;  especially  when  they 
are  of  frail  wax.  It  is  cultivating  finery  instead  of  affection. 
We  prefer  good  honest  plump  limbs  of  cotton  and  saw-dust, 
dressed  in  baby-linen ;  or  even  our  ancient  young  friends,  with 
their  staring  dotted  eyes,  red  varnished  faces,  triangular  noses, 
and  Roslnante  wooden  limbs — not,  it  must  be  confessed,  exces- 
sively shapely  or  feminine,  but  the  reverse  of  fragile  beauty, 
and  prepared  against  all  disasters. 

The  next  step  is  to  the  Pastry-cook's,  where  the  plain  bun  is 
still  the  pleasantest  thing  in  our  eyes,  from  its  respectability  in 
those  of  childhood.  The  pastry,  less  patronised  by  judicious 
mothers,  is  only  so  much  elegant  indigestion :  yet  it  is  not  easy 
to  forget  the  pleasure  of  nibbling  away  the  crust  all  round  a 
raspberry  or  currant  tart,  in  order  to  enjoy  the  three  or  four 
delicious  semicircular  bites  at  the  fruity  plenitude  remaining. 
There  is  a  custard  with  a  wall  of  paste  round  it,  which  provokes 
a  siege  of  this  kind ;  and  the  cheese-cake  has  its  amenities  of 
approach.  The  acid  flavor  is  a  relief  to  the  mawkishness  of 
the  biffin  or  pressed  baked  apple,  and  an  addition  to  the  glib  and 
quivering  lightness  of  the  jelly.  Twelfth  Cake,  which  when 
cut  looks  like  the  side  of  a  rich  pit  of  earth  covered  with  snow,  is 
pleasant  from  warmer  associations.  Confectionery  does  not  seem 
in  the  same  request  as  of  old  ;  its  paint  has  hurt  its  reputation. 
Yet  the  school-boy  has  still  much  to  say  for  its  humbler  suavi- 
ties.    Kisses  are  very  amiable  and  allegorical.     Eight  or  ten  of 


CHAP.  XL.]  A  NEARER  VIEW  OF  SOME  OF  THE  SHOPS.  333 

them,  judiciously  wrapped  up  in  pieces  of  letter  paper,  have 
saved  many  a  loving  heart  the  trouble  of  a  less  eloquent  billet- 
doux.  Candied  citron  we  look  upon  to  be  the  very  acme  and 
atticism  of  confectionery  grace.  Preserves  are  too  much  of  a 
good  thing,  with  the  exception  of  the  jams  that  retain  their  fruit- 
skins.  "Jam  satis."  They  qualify  the  cloying.  Yet  marma- 
lade must  not  be  passed  over  in  these  times,  when  it  has  been 
raised  to  the  dignity  of  the  peerage.  The  other  day  there  was  a 
Duke  of  Marmalade  in  Hayti,  and  a  Count  of  Lemonade, — so 
called,  from  places  in  which  those  eminent  relishes  are  manufac- 
tured. After  all,  we  must  own  that  there  is  but  one  thing  for 
which  we  care  much  at  a  pastry-cook's,  except  our  old  acquaint- 
ance the  bun  ;  especially  as  we  can  take  up  that,  and  go  on. 
It  is  an  ice.  Fancy  a  very  hot  day ;  the  blinds  down  ;  the 
loungers  unusually  languid;  the  pavement  burning  one's  feet;' 
the  sun,  with  a  strong  outline  in  the  street,  baking  one  whole 
side  of  it  like  a  brick-kiln ;  so  that  everybody  is  crowding  on 
the  other,  except  a  man  going  to  intercept  a  creditor  bound  for 
the  Continent.  Then  think  of  a  heaped-up  ice,  brought  upon  a 
salver  with  a  spoon.  What  statesman,  of  any  warmth  of  imagi- 
nation, would  not  pardon  the  Neapolitans  in  summer,  for  an 
insurrection  on  account  of  the  want  of  ice  ?  Think  of  the  first 
sidelong  dip  of  the  spoon  in  it,  bringing  away  a  well-sliced  lump  ; 
then  of  the  sweet  wintry  refreshment,  that  goes  lengthening 
down  one's  throat;  and  lastly,  of  the  sense  of  power  and  satis- 
faction resulting  from  having  had  the  ice. 

Not  heaven  itself  can  do  away  that  slice ; 

But  what  has  been,  has  been ;  and  I  have  had  my  ice. 

We  unaccountably  omitted  two  excellent  shops  last  week, — 
the  fruiterer's  and  the  sculptor's.  There  is  great  beauty  as 
well  as  agreeablene.ss  in  a  well-disposed  fruiterer's  window. 
Here  are  the  round  piled-up  oranges,  deepening  almost  into  red, 
and  heavy  with  juice  ;  the  ap['Ie  witn  its  brown  red  cheek,  as 
if  it  had  .slept  in  the  sun  ;  the  pear,  swelling  downwards  ;  throng- 
ing grapes,  like  so  many  tight  little  bagsj  of  nne;  the  peach, 
whose  handsome  'eathern  coat  strips  oti'so  iin.»i  f  ;  the  pearly  or 


234  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  xi. 

ruby-like  currants,  heaped  in  light  long  baskets;  the  red  little 
mouthful  of  strawberries ;  the  larger  purple  ones  of  plums ; 
cherries,  whose  old  comparison  with  lips  is  better  than  anything 
new ;  mulberries,  dark  and  rich  with  juice,  fit  to  grow  over 
what  Homer  calls  the  deep  black-watered  fountains ;  the  swell- 
ing pomp  of  melons ;  the  rough  inexorable-looking  cocoa-nut, 
milky  at  heart ;  the  elaborate  elegance  of  walnuts ;  the  quaint 
cashoo-nut  j  almonds,  figs,  raisins,  tamarinds,  green  leaves, — in 
short. 

Whatever  Earth,  all-bearing  mother,  yields 
In  India  East  or  West,  or  middle  shore 
In  Pontus  or  the  Punick  coast,  or  where 
Alcinous  reigned,  fruit  of  all  kinds,  in  coat 
Rough,  or  smooth  rind,  or  bearded  husk,  or  shell. 

Milton. 

There  is  something  of  more  refined  service  in  waiting  upon  a 
lady  in  a  fruit-shop,  than  in  a  pastry-cook's.  The  eating  of 
tarts,  as  Sir  Walter  Scott  handsomely  saith  in  his  Life  of  Dry- 
den  (who  used  to  enjoy  them,  it  seems,  in  company  with  "  Madam 
Reeves"),  is  "  no  inelegant  pleasure ;"  but  there  is  something 
still  more  graceful  and  suitable  in  the  choosing  of  the  natural 
fruit,  with  its  rosy  lips  and  red  cheeks.  A  white  hand  looks 
better  on  a  basket  of  plums,  than  in  the  doubtful  touching  of 
syrupy  and  sophisticated  pastry.  There  is  less  of  the  kitchim 
about  the  fair  visitor.  She  is  more  Pomona-like,  native,  and  o 
the  purpose.     We  help  her,  as  we  would  a  local  deity. 

Here  be  grapes  whose  lusty  blood 

Is  the  learned  poets'  good. 

Sweeter  yet  did  never  crown 

The  head  of  Bacchus  ; — nuts  more  brown 

Than  the  squirrels'  teeth  that  crack  them ; 

Deign,  0  fairest  fair,  to  take  them. 

For  these  black-ey'd  Driope 

Hath  often  times  commanded  me, 

With  my  clasped  knee  to  climb ; 

See  how  well  the  lusty  time 

Hath  deckt  their  rising  cheeks  in  red, 

Puch  as  on  your  lips  is  spread. 

ii  ire  ^e  bwrieefov  a  Queen, 


3HA»  XL.]  A  NEARER  VIEW  OF  SOME  OF  THE  SHOPS  238 

Some  be  red,  some  be  green ; 

These  are  of  that  luscious  meat, 

The  great  God  Pan  himself  doth  eat 

All  these,  and  what  the  woods  can  yield 

The  hanging  mountain  or  the  field, 

I  freely  offer,  and  ere  long 

Will  bring  you  more,  more  sweet  and  strong. 

Till  when  humbly  leave  I  take, 

Lest  the  great  Pan  do  awake. 

That  sleeping  lies  in  a  deep  glade. 

Under  a  broad  beech's  shade. 

Fletcher's  Faithful  Shepherdess. 

How  the  poets  double  every  delight  for  us,  with  their  imagina- 
lion  and  their  music  ! 

In  the  windows  of  some  of  the  sculptors'  shops,  artificial  fruit 
may  be  seen.  It  is  a  better  thing  to  put  upon  a  mantel-piece 
uhan  many  articles  of  greater  fashion ;  but  it  gives  an  abomina- 
ble sensation  to  one's  imaginary  teeth.  The  incautious  epicure 
who  plunges  his  teeth  into  "  a  painted  snow-ball"  in  Italy  (see 
Brydone^s  Tour  in  Sicily  and  Malta),  can  hardly  receive  so 
jarring  a  balk  to  his  gums,  as  the  bare  apprehension  of  a  bite 
at  a  stone  peach  ;  but  the  farther  you  go  in  a  sculptor's  shop 
the  better.  Many  persons  are  not  aware  that  there  are  show- 
rooms  in  these  places,  which  are  well  worth  getting  a  sight  of 
by  some  small  purchase.  For  the  best  plaster  casts  the  Italian 
shops,  such  as  Papera's  in  Marylebone-strect,  Golden-square, 
and  Sarti's  in  Greek-street,  are  the  best.  Of  all  the  shop-plea- 
sures that  are  "not  inelegant,"  an  hour  or  two  passed  in  a  place 
of  this  kind  is  surely  one  of  the  most  polite.  Here  are  the  gods 
and  heroes  of  old,  and  the  more  beneficent  philosophers,  ancient 
and  modern.  You  are  looked  upon,  as  you  walk  among  them, 
by  the  paternal  majesty  of  Jupiter,  the  force  and  decision  of 
Minerva,  the  still  more  arresting  gentleness  of  Venus,  the 
budding  compactness  of  Hebe,  the  breathing  inspiration  of 
Apollo.  Here  the  celestial  Venus,  naked  in  heart  and  body, 
ties  up  her  locks,  her  drapery  hanging  upon  her  lower  limbs. 
Here  the  Belvidere  Apollo,  breathing  forth  his  triumphant  dis- 
dain, follows  with  an  earnest  eye  the  shaft  that  has  killed  the 
perpent.    Here  the  Graces,  linked  in  an  affectionate  group,  mee 

21 


236  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap  xt 

you  ir:  the  naked  sincerity  of  their  innocence  and  generosity, 
their  hands  "open  as  day,"  and  two  advancing  for  one  receding. 
Here  Hercules,  like  the  building  of  a  man,  looks  down  from  his 
propping  club,  as  if  half  disdaining  even  that  repose.  There 
Mercury,  with  his  light  limbs,  seems  just  to  touch  the  ground, 
ready  to  give  a  start  with  his  foot  and  be  off  again.  Bacchus, 
with  his  riper  cheek,  and  his  thicker  hanging  locks,  appears  to 
be  eyeing  one  of  his  nymphs.  The  Vatican  Apollo  near  him, 
leans  upon  the  stump  of  a  tree,  the  hand  which  hangs  upon  it 
holding  a  bit  of  his  lyre,  the  other  arm  thrown  up  over  his  head, 
as  if  he  felt  the  air  upon  his  body,  and  heard  it  singing  through 
the  strings.  In  a  corner  on  another  side,  is  the  Crouching  Venus 
of  John  of  Bologna,  shrinking  just  before  she  steps  into  the  bath. 
The  Dancing  Faun  is  not  far  off,  with  his  animal  spirits,  and  the 
Piping  Faun,  sedater  because  he  possesses  an  art  more  accom- 
plished. Among  the  other  divinities,  we  look  up  with  venera- 
tion to  old  Homer's  head,  resembling  an  earthly  Jupiter.  Plato 
Deholds  us  with  a  bland  dignity — a  beauty  unimpairable  by 
years.  How  different  from  the  brute  impulse  of  Mars,  the 
bloated  self-will  of  Nero,  or  the  dull  and  literal  effeminacy  of 
some  of  the  other  emperors !  There  is  a  sort  of  presence  in 
sculpture,  more  than  in  any  other  representations  of  art.  It  is 
curious  to  see  how  instinctively  people  will  fall  into  this  senti- 
ment when  they  come  into  a  place  with  busts  and  statues  in  it, 
however  common.  They  hush,  as  if  the  images  could  hear 
them.  In  our  boyhood,  some  of  our  most  delightful  holidays 
were  spent  in  the  gallery  of  the  late  Mr.  West,  in  Newman- 
street.  It  runs  a  good  way  back  from  the  street,  crossing  a 
small  garden,  and  opening  into  loftier  rooms  on  the  other  side 
of  it.  We  remember  how  the  world  used  to  seem  shut  out  from 
us  the  moment  the  street-door  was  closed,  and  we  began  step- 
ping down  those  long  carpeted  aisles  of  pictures,  with  statues  in 
the  angles  where  they  turned.  We  had  observed  everybody 
walk  down  them  in  this  way,  like  the  mild  possessor  of  the  man- 
sion, and  we  went  so  likewise.  We  have  walked  down  with 
him  at  night  to  his  painting-room,  as  he  went  in  his  white  flannel 
gown,  with  a  lamp  in  his  hand,  which  shot  a  lustrous  twilight 
upon  the  pictured  walls  in  passing ;  and  everything  looked  so 


CHAP.  XL.]  A  NEARER  VIEW  OF  SOME  OP  THE  SHOPS.  237 

quiet  and  graceful,  that  we  should  have  thought  it  sacrilege  to 
hear  a  sound  beyond  the  light  tread  of  his  footsteps.  But  it  was 
the  statues  that  impressed  us  still  more  than  the  pictures.  It 
seemed  as  if  Venus  and  Apollo  waited  our  turning  at  the  cor- 
ners; and  there  they  were,  always  the  same,  placid  and  intuitive, 
more  human  and  bodily  than  the  paintings,  yet  too  divine  to  be 
over  real.  It  is  to  that  house  with  the  gallery  in  question,  and 
the  little  green  plot  of  ground,  surrounded  with  an  arcade  and 
busts,  that  we  owe  the  greatest  part  of  our  love  for  what  is  Ita- 
lian and  belongs  to  the  fine  arta.  And  if  this  is  a  piece  of  pri- 
vate history,  with  which  the  readers  have  little  to  do,  they  will 
excuse  it  for  the  sake  of  the  greatest  of  all  excuse,  which  is 
Love. 


END     OF     PART     I. 


INDICATOR, 


PART    II. 


21" 


THE   INDICATOR. 


There  is  a  bird  in  the  interior  of  Africa,  whose  habits  would  rather  seem 
to  belong  to  the  interior  of  Fairy-land ;  but  they  have  been  well  authenti- 
cated. It  indicates  to  honey-hunters,  where  the  nests  of  wild  bees  are  to  be 
found.  It  calls  them  with  a  cheerful  cry,  which  they  answer ;  and  on  finding 
itself  recognized,  flies  and  hovers  over  a  hollow  tree  containing  the  honey. 
While  they  are  occupied  in  collecting  it,  the  bird  goes  to  a  little  distance, 
where  he  observes  all  that  passes;  and  the  hunters,  when  they  have  helped 
themselves,  take  care  to  leave  him  his  portion  of  the  food. — This  is  the 
CucuLUs  Indicator  of  Linnaeus,  otherwise  called  the  Moroc,  Bee 
Cuckoo,  or  Honey  Bird. 

There  he  arriving^  round  about  doth  flie, 

And  takes  survey  with  busie,  curious  eye : 

Ifow  this,  now  that,  he  tasteth  tenderly. — Spenser. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

A  word  or  two  more  on  Sticks. 

A  CORRESPONDENT,  Writing  to  us  on  this  subject,  says : — "  In  my 
day  I  have  indulged  an  extravagant  fancy  for  canes  and  sticks ; 
but,  like  the  children  of  the  fashionable  world,  I  have,  in  run- 
ning  the  round,  grown  tired  of  g,I1  my  favorites,  except  one  of  a 
plain  and  useful  sort.  Conceive  my  mortification  in  finding  this 
my  last  prop  not  included  in  your  catalogue  of  sticks  most  in 
use ;  especially  since  it  has  become,  among  us  men  of  sticks, 
the  description  most  approved.  The  present  day,  which  is  one 
of  mimicry,  boasts  scarcely  any  protection  in  the  very  stick  I 
allude  to  ;  and  yet,  because  it  is  so  unpresuming  in  its  appea'* 
ance,  and  so  cheap,  the  gentlemen  '  of  a  day '  will  n.^t  conde- 
scend to  use  it.  We,  Sir,  who  make  a  stick  our  constant  com- 
panion   (notwithstanding  our   motives  may   be   misundei stood), 


2  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xh 

value  the  tough,  the  useful,  the  highly  picturesque  *  Ash  Plant.' 
Its  still  and  gentlemanly  color ;  its  peculiar  property  of  bending 
round  the  shoulders  of  a  man,  without  breaking  (in  the  event  of 
our  using  it  that  way) ;  the  economy  of  the  thing,  as  economy 
is  the  order  of  the  day  (at  least  in  minor  concerns) ;  its  being 
the  best  substitute  for  the  old-fashioned  horse-whip  in  a  morning- 
ride,  and  now  so  generally  used  in  lieu  of  the  long  hunting-whip 
in  the  sports  of  the  chase ;  answering  every  purpose  for  gates, 
&c.,  without  offering  any  temptation  to  do  the  work  of  a  whip, 
per-in  ; — all  this,  and  much  more,  might  be  said  of  the  neglected 
Ground  Ash." 

We  must  cry  mercy  on  the  estimable  stick  here  referred  to, 
and  indeed  on  several  other  sorts  of  wood,  unjustly  omitted  in 
our  former  article.  We  also  neglected  to  notice  those  ingenious 
and  pregnant  walking-sticks,  which  contain  swords,  inkstands, 
garden-seats,  &c.,  and  sometimes  surprise  us  with  playing  a  tune. 
As  the  ancient  poets  wrote  stories  of  gods  visiting  people  in  hu- 
man shapes,  in  order  to  teach  a  considerate  behavior  to  stran- 
gers  ,•  so  an  abstract  regard  ought  to  be  shown  to  all  sticks,  in- 
asmuch as  the  irreverent  spectator  may  not  know  what  sort  of 
staff  he  is  encountering.  If  he  does  not  take  care,  a  man  may 
beat  him  and  "write  him  down  an  ass"  with  the  same  accom- 
plished  implement ;  or  sit  down  upon  it  before  his  face,  where 
there  is  no  chair  to  be  had ;  or  follow  up  his'  chastisement  with 
a  victorious  tune  on  the  flute.  As  to  the  ash,  to  which  we  would 
do  especial  honor,  for  the  sake  of  our  injured,  yet  at  the  same 
time  polite  and  forgiving,  Correspondent,  we  have  the  satisfac- 
tion of  stating  that  it  hath  been  reputed  the  very  next  wood,  in 
point  of  utility,  to  the  oak ;  and  hath  been  famous,  time  imme- 
morial, for  its  staffian  qualities.  Infinite  are  the  spears  with 
wiiich  it  has  supplied  the  warlike,  the  sticks  it  has  put  into  the 
hands  of  a  less  sanguinary  courage,  the  poles  it  has  furnished 
for  hops,  vines,  &lc.,  and  the  arbors  which  it  has  run  up  for  lov- 
ers. The  Greek  name  for  it  was  Melia,  or  the  Honied;  from  a 
juice  or  manna  which  it  drops,  and  which  has  been  much  used 
in  medicine  and  dyeing.  There  are,  or  were,  about  forty  years 
back,  when  Count  Ginnani  wrote  his  History  of  the  Ravenna 
Pine   Forest,  lajge  ash  woods  in  Tuscany,  which  used  to  be 


CfHAP.  XLi.J      A  WORD  OR  TWO  MORE  ON  STICKS.  3 

tapped  for  those  purposes.  Yirgil  calls  it  the  handsomest  tree 
in  the  forest;  Chaucer,  "the  hardie  ashe;"  and  Spenser,  "the 
ash  for  nothing  ill."  The  ground-ash  flourishes  the  better,  the 
more  it  is  cut  and  slashed  ; — a  sort  of  improvement,  which  it 
•ometimes  bestows  in  return  upon  human  kind. 


THE  INDICATOR.  [chap  xut. 


CHAPTER  XLTI. 

The  Daughter  of  Hippocrates 

In  the  time  of  the  Norman  reign  in  Sicily,  a  vessel  bound  from 
that  island  for  Smyrna  was  driven  by  a  westerly  wind  upon  the 
island  of  Cos.  The  crew  did  not  know  where  they  were,  though 
they  had  often  visited  the  island  ;  for  the  trading  towns  lay  in 
other  quarters,  and  they  saw  nothing  before  them  but  woods  and 
solitudes.  They  found  however  a  comfortable  harbor ;  and  the 
wind  having  fallen  in  the  night,  they  went  on  shore  next  morn- 
ing for  water.  The  country  proved  as  solitary  as  they  thought 
it ;  which  was  the  more  extraordinary,  inasmuch  as  it  was  very 
luxuriant,  full  of  wild  figs  and  grapes,  with  a  rich  uneven  ground, 
and  stocked  with  goats  and  other  animals,  who  fled  whenever 
they  appeared.  The  bees  were  remarkably  numerous;  so  that 
the  wild  honey,  fruits,  and  delicious  water,  especially  one  spring 
which  fell  into  a  beautiful  marble  basin,  made  them  more  and 
more  wonder,  at  every  step,  that  they  could  see  no  human  in- 
habitants. 

Thus  idling  about  and  wondering,  stretching  themselves  now 
and  then  among  the  wild  thyme  and  grass,  and  now  getting  up 
to  look  at  some  specially  fertile  place  which  another  called  them 
to  see,  and  which  they  thought  might  be  turned  to  fine  trading 
purpose,  they  came  upon  a  mound  covered  with  trees,  which 
looked  into  a  flat  wide  lawn  of  rank  grass,  with  a  house  at  the 
end  of  it.  They  crept  nearer  towards  the  house  along  the  mound, 
still  continuing  among  the  trees,  for  fear  they  were  trespassing 
at  last  upon  somebody's  property.  It  had  a  large  garden  wall 
at  the  back,  as  much  covered  with  ivy  as  if  it  had  been  built  of 
it.  Fruit-trees  looked  over  the  wall  with  an  unpruned  thick- 
ness ;  and  neither  at  the  back  nor  front  of  the  house  were  there 
any  signs  of  humanity.  It  was  an  ancient  marble  building, 
where  glass  was  not  to  be  expected  in  the  windows  ;  but  it  waa 
much  dilapidated,  and  the  grass  grew  up  over  the  steps.     They 


«;h>»    xlii.]       the  daughter  OF  HIPPOCRATES.  5 

listened  again  and  again ;  but  nothing  was  to  be  heard  like  a 
sound  of  men  ;  nor  scarcely  of  anything  else.  There  was  an 
intense  noonday  silence.  Only  the  hares  made  a  rustling  noise 
as  they  ran  about  the  long  hiding  grass.  The  house  looked  like 
the  tomb  of  human  nature,  amidst  the  vitality  of  earth. 

"  Did  you  see  ?"  said  one  of  the  crew,  turning  pale,  and  has- 
tening to  go.  "  See  what  ?"  said  the  others.  "  What  looked 
out  of  window."  They  all  turned  their  faces  towards  the  house, 
but  saw  nothing.  Upon  this  they  laughed  at  their  companion, 
who  persisted  however  with  great  earnestness,  and  with  great 
reluctance  at  stopping,  to  say  that  he  saw  a  strange  hideous  kind 
of  face  look  out  of  window.  "  Let  us  go.  Sir,"  said  he,  to  the 
Captain  ; — "  for  I  tell  ye  what :  I  know  this  place  now  :  and  you, 
Signor  Gualtier,"  continued  he,  turning  to  a  young  man,  "  may 
now  follow  that  adventure  I  have  often  heard  you  wish  to  be 
engaged  in."  The  crew  turned  pale,  and  Gualtier  among  them. 
"  Yes,"  added  the  man,  "  we  are  fallen  upon  the  enchanted  part 
of  the  island  of  Cos,  where  the  daughter  of — Hush  !  Look  there  !" 
They  turned  their  faces  again,  and  beheld  the  head  of  a  large 
serpent  looking  out  of  window.  Its  eyes  were  direct  upon  them  ; 
and  stretching  out  of  window,  it  lifted  back  its  head  with  little 
sharp  jerks  like  a  fowl ;   and  so  stood  keenly  gazing. 

The  terrified  sailors  would  have  begun  to  depart  quicklier 
than  they  did,  had  not  fear  itself  made  them  move  slowly.  Their 
legs  seemed  melting  from  under  them.  Gualtier  tried  to  rally 
his  voice.  "  They  say,"  said  he,  "  it  is  a  gentle  creature.  The 
hares  that  feed  right  in  front  of  the  house  are  a  proof  of  it : — let 
us  all  stay."  The  others  shook  their  heads,  and  spoke  in  whis- 
pers,  still  continuing  to  descend  the  mound  as  well  as  they  could. 
"There  is  something  unnatural  in  that  very  thing,"  said  the 
Captain:  '*  but  we  will  wait  for  you  in  the  vessel,  if  you  stay. 
We  will,  by  St.  Pirmo."  The  Captain  had  not  supposed  that 
Gualtier  would  stay  an  instant ;  but  seeing  him  linger  more 
than  the  rest,  he  added  the  oath  in  question,  and  in  the  mean 
time  was  hastening  with  the  others  to  got  away.  The  truth  is, 
Gualtier  was,  in  one  respect,  more  frightened  than  any  of  tlii'm. 
His  legs  were  more  rooted  to  the  spot.  But  the  same  force  of 
imagination  that  helped  to  detain  him,  enabled  him  to  muster  up 


THE  jflNDICATOR.  [chap.  xlti. 

courage  beyond  those  who  found  their  will  more  powerful  :  and 
in  the  midst  of  his  terror  he  could  not  help  thinking  what  a  fine 
adventure  this  would  be  to  tell  in  Salerno,  even  if  he  did  but 
conceal  himself  a  little,  and  stay  a  few  minutes  longer  than  the 
rest.  The  thought,  however,  had  hardly  come  upon  him,  when 
it  was  succeeded  by  a  fear  still  more  lively  ;  and  he  was  pre- 
paring to  follow  the  others  with  all  the  expedition  he  could  con- 
trive, when  a  fierce  rustling  took  place  in  the  trees  behind  him, 
and  in  an  instant  the  serpent's  head  was  at  his  feet.  Gualtier's 
brain  as  well  as  heart  seemed  to  sicken,  as  he  thought  the  mon- 
strous object  scented  him  like  a  bear  ;  but  despair  commg  in  aid 
of  a  courage  naturally  fanciful  and  chivalrous,  he  bent  his  eyes 
more  steadily,  and  found  the  huge  jaws  and  fangs  not  only  ab- 
staining  from  hurting  him,  but  crouching  and  fawning  at  his  feet 
like  a  spaniel.  At  the  same  time,  he  called  to  mind  the  old  le- 
gend respecting  the  creature,  and,  corroborated  as  he  now  saw 
it,  he  ejaculated  with  good  firmness,  "  In  the  name  of  God  and 
his  saints,  what  art  thou  ?" 

"Hast  thou  not  heard  of  me?"  answered  the  serpent  in  a 
voice  whose  singular  human  slenderness  made  it  seem  the  more 
horrible.  "  I  guess  who  thou  art,"  answered  Gualtier  ; — "  the 
fearful  thing  in  the  island  of  Cos." 

"  I  am  that  loathly  thing,"  replied  the  serpent ;  "  once  not 
so."     And  Gualtier  thought  that  its  voice  trembled  sorrowfully. 

The  monster  told  Gualtier  that  what  was  said  of  her  was  true  ; 
that  she  had  been  a  serpent  hundreds  of  years,  feeling  old  age 
and  renewing  her  youth  at  the  end  of  each  century ;  that  it  was 
a  curse  of  Diana's  which  had  changed  her ;  and  that  she  was 
never  to  resume  a  human  form,  till  somebody  was  found  kind 
and  bold  enough  to  kiss  her  on  the  mouth.  As  she  spoke  this 
word,  she  raised  her  crest,  and  sparkled  so  with  her  fiery  green 
eyes,  dilating  at  the  same  time  the  corners  of  her  jaws,  that  the 
young  man  thrilled  through  his  very  scalp.  He  stept  back,  with 
a  look  of  the  utmost  horror  and  loathing.  The  creature  gave  a 
sharp  groan  inwardly,  and  after  rolling  her  neck  franticly  on 
the  ground,  withdrew  a  little  back  likewise,  and  seemed  to  be 
looking  another  way.  Gualtier  heard  two  or  three  little  sounds 
a«  of  a  person  weeping  piteously,  yet  trying  to  subdue  its  voice ; 


CHAP.  xLTi.]      THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HIPPOCRATES  7 

and   looking  with  breathless  curiosity,  he  saw  the  side  of  the 
loathly  creature's  face  bathed  in  tears. 

"  Why  speakest  thou,  lady,"  said  he,  "  if  lady  thou  art,  of  the . 
curse  of  the  false  goddess  Diana,  who  never  was,  or  only  a  devil  ? 
I  cannot  kiss  thee," — and  he  shuddered  with  a  horrible  shudder, 
as  he  spoke,  "  but  I  will  bless  thee  in  the  name  of  the  true  God, 
and  even  mark  thee  with  his  cross." 

The  serpent  shook  her  head  mournfully,  still  keeping  it  turned 
round.  She  then  faced  him  again,  hanging  her  head  in  a  dreary 
and  desponding  manner.  "  Thou  knowest  not,"  said  she,  "  what 
I  know.  Diana  both  was  and  never  was ;  and  there  are  many 
other  things  on  earth,  which  are  and  yet  are  not.  Thou  canst 
not  comprehend  it,  even  though  thou  art  kind.  But  the  heavens 
alter  not,  neither  the  sun  nor  the  strength  of  nature  ;  and  if  thou 
wert  kinder,  I  should  be  as  I  once  was,  happy  and  human. 
Suffice  it,  that  nothing  can  change  me  but  what  I  said." 

"  Why  wert  thou  changed,  thou  fearful  and  mysterious  thing  ?" 
said  Gualtier. 

"Because  I  denied  Diana,  as  thou  dost,"  answered  the  ser- 
pent ;  "  and  it  was  pronounced  an  awful  crime  in  me,  though  it 
is  none  in  thee  ;  and  I  was  to  be  made  a  thing  loathsome  in  men's 
eyes.  Let  me  not  catch  thine  eye,  I  beseech  thee  ;  but  go  thy 
way  and  be  safe  ;  for  I  feel  a  cruel  thought  coming  on,  me, 
which  will  shake  my  innermost  soul,  though  it  shall  not  harm 
thee.  But  I  could  make  thee  suffer  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
thine  anguish  ;  even  as  some  tyrants  do  ;  and  is  not  that  dread- 
ful ?"     And  the  monster  openly  shed  tears,  and  sobbed. 

There  was  something  in  this  mixture  of  avowed  cruelty  and 
weeping  contradiction  to  it,  which  made  Gualtier  remain  in  spite 
of  himself.  But  fear  was  still  uppermost  in  his  mind,  when  he 
looked  upon  the  mouth  that  was  to  be  kissed  ;  and  he  held  fast 
round  a  tree  with  one  hand,  and  his  sword  as  fast  in  the  other, 
watching  the  movements  of  her  neck  as  he  conversed.  "  How 
did  thy  father,  the  sage  Hippocrates,"  asked  he,  "suffer  thee  to 
come  to  this?"  "My  father,"  replied  she,  "sage  and  good  as 
he  was,  was  but  a  Greek  mortal  ;  and  the  great  Virgin  was  a 
worshipped  Goddess.  I  pray  thee,  go."  She  uttered  the  \asi 
word  in  a  tone  of  loud  anguish ;  but  the  very  horror  of  it  made 

22 


8  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap   xlii. 

Gualtier  hesitate,  and  he  said,  "  How  can  I  know  that  it  is  not 
thy  destiny  to  deceive  the  merciful  into  this  horrible  kiss,  that 
then  and  then  only  thou  mayst  devour  them?" 

But  the  serpent  rose  higher  at  this,  and  looking  around  loftily, 
said  in  a  mild  and  majestic  tone  of  voice,  "  O  ye  green  and  happy 
woods,  breathing  like  sleep  !  O  safe  and  quiet  population  of  these 
leafy  places,  dying  brief  deaths  !  O  sea  !  O  earth  !  O  heavens, 
never  uttering  syllable  to  man  !  Is  there  no  way  to  make  better 
known  the  meaning  of  your  gentle  silence,  of  your  long  basking 
pleasures  and  brief  pains?  And  must  the  want  of  what  is  beau- 
tiful and  kind  from  others,  ever  remain  different  from  what  is 
beautiful  and  kind  in  itself?  And  must  form  obscure  essence  j 
and  human  confidence  in  good  from  within,  never  be  bolder  than 
suspicion  of  evil  from  without  ?  O  ye  large-looking  and  grand 
benignities  of  creation,  is  it  that  we  are  atoms  in  a  dream  ;  or 
that  your  largeness  and  benignity  are  in  those  only  who  see  them, 
and  that  it  is  for  us  to  hang  over  ye  till  we  wake  you  into  a 
voice  with  our  kisses  ?  I  yearn  to  be  made  beautiful  by  one  kind 
action,  and  beauty  itself  will  not  believe  me !" 

Gualtier,  though  not  a  foolish  youth,  understood  little  or  noth- 
ing  of  this  mystic  apostrophe ;  but  something  made  him  bear  in 
mind,  and  really  inclined  to  believe,  that  it  was  a  transformed 
woman  speaking  to  him  ;  and  he  was  making  a  violent  internal 
effort  to  conquer  his  repugnance  to  the  kiss,  when  some  hares, 
starting  from  him  as  they  passed,  ran  and  cowered  behind  the 
folds  of  the  monster :  and  she  stooped  her  head,  and  licked  them. 
"  By  Christ,"  exclaimed  he,  "  whom  the  wormy  grave  gathered 
into  its  arms  to  save  us  from  our  corruptions,  I  will  do  this  thing  ; 
so  may  he  have  mercy  on  my  soul,  whether  I  live  or  die :  for 
the  very  hares  take  refuge  in  her  shadow."  And  shuddering 
and  shutting  his  eyes,  he  put  his  mouth  out  for  her  to  meet; 
and  he  seemed  to  feel,  in  his  blindness,  that  dreadful  mouth 
approaching ;  and  he  made  the  sign  of  the  cross ;  and  he  mur- 
mured internally  the  name  of  him  who  casi  seven  devils  out  of 
Mary  Magdalen,  that  afterwards  anointed  his  feet ;  and  in  the 
midst  of  his  courageous  agony,  he  felt  a  small  mouth,  fast  and 
warm  upon  his,  and  a  hand  about  his  neck,  and  another  on  his 
yft  hand ;  and  opening  his  eyes,  he  dropped  them  uj>on  two  of 


CHAP.  XLii.l      THE  DAUGHTER  OF  HIPPOCRATUS.  9 

the  sweetest  that  ever  looked  into  the  eye  of  man. — But  ti***: 
hares  fled ;  for  they  had  loved  the  serpent,  but  knew  not  the 
beautiful  human  being. 

Great  was  the  fame  of  Gualtier,  not  only  throughout  the  Gre- 
cian islands,  but  on  both  continents  ;  and  most  of  all  in  Sicily, 
where  every  one  of  his  countrymen  thought  he  had  a  hand  in 
the  enterprise,  for  being  born  on  the  same  soil.  The  Captain 
and  his  crew  never  came  again ;  for,  alas  !  they  had  gone  off 
without  waiting  as  they  promised.  But  Tancred,  Prince  of 
Salerno,  came  himself  with  a  knightly  train  to  see  Gualtier ; 
who  lived  with  his  lady  in  the  same  place,  all  her  past  suffer- 
ings appearing  as  nothing  to  her  before  a  month  of  love ;  and 
even  sorrowful  habit  had  endeared  it  to  her.  Tancred,  and  his 
knights,  and  learned  clerks,  came  in  a  noble  ship,  every  oar 
having  a  painted  scutcheon  over  the  rowlock ;  and  Gualtier  and 
his  lady  feasted  them  nobly,  and  drank  to  them  amidst  music  in 
cups  of  Hippocras — that  knightly  liquor  afterwards  so  renowned, 
which  she  retained  the  secret  of  making  from  her  sage  father, 
whose  name  it  bore.  And  when  King  Tancred,  with  a  gentle 
gravity  in  the  midst  of  his  mirth,  expressed  a  hope  that  the  beau- 
tiful lady  no  longer  worshipped  Diana,  Gualtier  said,  "No,  in- 
deed, Sir;"  and  she  looked  in  Gualtier's  face,  as  she  sat  next 
him,  with  the  sweetest  look  in  the  world,  as  who  should  say, 
*'  No,  indeed  : — I  worship  thee  and  thy  kind  heart."* 

*  This  story  is  founded  on  a  tradition  still  preserved  in  the  island  of  Cos, 
and  repeated  in  old  romances  and  books  of  travels.  See  Dunlop's  History 
of  Fiction,  vol.  ii.,  where  he  gives  an  account  of  Tirante  the  White. 


THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xtui 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

The  Italian  Girl. 

The  sun  was  shining  beautifully  one  summer  evening,  as  if 
he  bade  sparkling  farewell  to  a  world  which  he  had  made  happy. 
It  seemed  also,  by  his  looks,  as  if  he  promised  to  make  his  ap- 
pearance again  to-morrow ;  but  there  was  at  times  a  deep 
breathing  western  wind,  and  dark  purple  clouds  came  up  here 
and  there,  like  gorgeous  waiters  at  a  funeral.  The  children  in 
a  village  not  far  from  the  metropolis  were  playing  however  on 
the  green,  content  with  the  brightness  of  the  moment,  when  they 
saw  a  female  approaching,  who  gathered  them  about  her  by  the 
singularity  of  her  dress.  It  was  not  a  very  remarkable  dress  ; 
but  any  difference  from  the  usual  apparel  of  their  country-wo- 
men appeared  so  to  them  ;  and  crying  out,  "  A  French,  girl !  A 
French  girl !"  they  ran  up  to  her,  and  stood  looking  and  talking. 
The  stranger  seated  herself  upon  a  bench  that  was  fixed  be- 
tween two  elms,  and  for  a  moment  leaned  her  head  against  one 
of  them,  as  if  faint  with  walking.  But  she  raised  it  speedily, 
and  smiled  with  complacency  on  the  rude  urchins.  She  had  a 
boddice  and  petticoat  on  of  different  colors,  and  a  handkerchief 
tied  neatly  about  her  head  with  the  point  behind.  On  her  hands 
were  gloves  without  fingers ;  and  she  wore  about  her  neck  a 
guitar,  upon  the  strings  of  which  one  of  her  hands  rested.  The 
children  thought  her  very  handsome.  Anybody  else  would  alsc 
have  thought  her  very  ill ;  but  they  saw  nothing  before  them  but 
a  good-natured  looking  foreigner  and  a  guitar,  and  they  asked 
her  to  play.  "O  che  bei  ragazzi  f"  said  she,  in  a  soft  and  al- 
Tfiost  inaudible  voice  ;  "  Chevisi  lietif"*  and  she  began  to  play. 
She  tried  to  sing  too,  but  her  voice  failed  her,  and  she  shook  hel 
lead  smilingly,  saying  "  Stanca  f  stanca  .'"f    "  Sing — do  sing," 

*  Oh  what  fine  boys !  What  happy  faces  ! 
\  Weary  !  Weary  ! 


■!HAP.  XLiii]  THE  ITALIAN  GIRL.  Jl 

said  the  children ;  and  nodding  her  head,  she  was  trying  to  do 
so,  when  a  set  of  boys  came  up  and  joined  in  the  request.  "No. 
no,"  said  one  of  the  elder  boys,  "  she  is  not  well.  You  are  ill, 
a'nt  you, — Miss !"  added  he,  laying  his  hand  upon  hers  as  if  to 
hinder  it.  He  drew  out  the  last  word  somewhat  doubtfully,  for 
her  appearance  perplexed  him ;  he  scarcely  knew  whether  to 
take  her  for  a  strolling  musician  or  a  lady  strayed  from  a  sick 
bed.  "Grazief^'  said  she,  understanding  his  look: — "  troppo 
stanca  :  troppo.*'' 

By  this  time  the  usher  came  up,  and  addressed  her  in  French  ; 
but  she  only  understood  a  word  here  and  there.  He  then  spoke 
Latin,  and  she  repeated  one  or  two  of  his  words,  as  if  they  were 
familiar  to  her. 

"  She  is  an  Italian !"  said  he,  looking  round  with  a  good-na- 
tured importance  ;  "  for  the  Italian  is  but  a  bastard  of  the  Latin." 
The  children  looked  with  the  more  wonder,  thinking  he  was 
sneaking  of  the  fair  musician. 

"  JSon  dubito"  continued  the  usher,  "  quin  tu  lectitas  poetam 
ilium  celeberrimum  Tassonem  ;  f  Taxum,  I  should  say  properly, 
but  the  departure  from  the  Italian  name  is  considerable."  The 
stranger  did  not  understand  a  word. 

"I  speak  of  Tasso,"  said  the  usher, — "of  Tasso." 

"  Tasso!  Tasso  f"  repeated  the  fair  minstrel ;  "oh — conosco 
— il  Tds-so  ;"X  and  she  hung  with  an  accent  of  beautiful  lan- 
guor upon  the  first  syllable. 

"  Yes,"  returned  the  worthy  scholar,  "  doubtless  your  accent 
may  be  better.  Then  of  course  you  know  those  classical 
lines — 

Intanto  Erminia  infra  1'  ombrosy  pianty 
D'  antica  selva  dal  cavallo — what  is  it  ?" 

The  stranger  repeated  these  words  in  a  tone  of  fondness,  like 
those  of  an  old  friend  : — 

Intanto  Erminia  infra  1'  ombrose  piante 
D'  antica  seiva  dal  cavallo  e  scorta ; 

*  Thanks : — too  weary  !  too  weary  ! 

t  Doubtless  you  read  that  celebrated  poet  Tasso. 

t  Oh   -I  ki'riw — Tasso. 

22* 


2  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  xliu. 

Ne  piu  governo  il  fren  la  man  tremante, 
E  mezza  quasi  par,  tra  viva  e  morta.* 

Our  usher's  common-place  book  had  supplied  him  with  a  hi- 
Ainate  passage,  for  it  was  a  favorite  one  of  her  country-women, 
t  also  singularly  applied  to  her  situation.  There  was  a  sort  of 
exquisite  mixture  of  clearness  in  her  utterance  of  these  verses, 
which  gave  some  of  the  children  a  better  idea  of  French  than 
they  had  had ;  for  they  could  not  get  it  out  of  their  heads  that 
she  must  be  a  French  girl : — "  Italian  French,  perhaps,"  said 
one  of  them.  But  her  voice  trembled  as  she  went  on,  like  the 
hand  she  spoke  of. 

"  I  have  heard  my  poor  cousin  Montague  sing  those  very 
lines,"  said  the  boy  who  prevented  her  from  playing. 

"  Montague,"  repeated  the  stranger  very  plainly,  but  turning 
paler  and  fainter.  She  put  one  of  her  hands  in  turn  upon  the 
boy's  affectionately,  and  pointed  towards  the  spot  where  the 
church  was. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  cried  the  boy  ; — "  why,  she  knew  my  cousin  : — 
she  must  have  known  him  in  Florence." 

"  I  told  you,"  said  the  usher,  "she  was  an  Italian." 

"  Help  her  to  my  aunt's,"  continued  the  youth,  "  she'll 
understand  her: — lean  upon  me.  Miss  ;"  and  he  repeated  the 
last  word  without  his  former  hesitation. 

Only  a  few  boys  followed  her  to  the  door,  the  rest  having  been 
awed  away  by  the  usher.  As  soon  as  the  stranger  entered  the 
house  and  saw  an  elderly  lady  who  received  her  kindly,  she 
exclaimed  "  La  Signora  Madre,"  and  fell  in  a  swoon  at 
her  feet. 

She  was  taken  to  bed,  and  attended  with  the  utmost  care  by 
"ler  hostess,  who  would  not  suffer  her  to  talk  till  she  had  had  a 
Jeep.  She  merely  heard  enough  to  find  out,  that  the  stranger 
lad  known  her  son  in  Italy  ;  and  she  was  thrown  into  a  painful 
nate  of  suspicion  by  the  poor  girl's  eyes,  which  followed  hel 
ibout  the  room  till  the  lady  fairly  came  up  and  closed  them. 

*  Meantime  in  the  old  wood,  the  palfrey  bore 
Erminia  deeper  into  shade  and  shade  ; 
Her  trembling  hands  could  hold  him  in  no  more, 
And  she  appeared  betwixt  alive  and  dead. 


'«AP.  xLiii.]  THE  ITALIAN  GIRL.  13 

"Obedient!  obedient!"  said  the  patient:  "obedient  in  every- 
thing: only  the  Signora  will  let  me  kiss  her  hand  ;"  and  taking 
it  with  her  own  trembling  one,  she  laid  her  cheek  upon   it,  and 
it  stayed  there  till  she  had  dropt  asleep  for  weariness. 

Silken  rest 


Tie  all  thy  cares  up  ! 

thought  her  kind  watcher,  who  was  doubly  thrown  upon  a  recol- 
lection of  that  beautiful  passage  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  by 
the  suspicion  she  had  of  the  cause  of  the  girl's  visit.  "  And 
yet,"  thought  she,  turning  her  eyes,  with  a  thin  tear  in  them, 
towards  the  church  spire,  "  he  was  an  excellent  boy, — the  boy 
of  my  heart." 

When  the  stranger  woke,  the  secret  was  explained  :  and  if  the 
mind  of  her  hostess  was  relieved,  it  was  only  the  more  touched 
with  pity,  and  indeed  moved  with  respect  and  admiration.  The 
dying  girl  (for  she  evidently  was  dying,  and  happy  at  the  thought 
of  it)  was  the  niece  of  an  humble  tradesman  in  Florence,  at 
whose  house  young  Montague,  who  was  a  gentleman  of  small 
fortune,  had  lodged  and  fallen  sick  during  his  travels.  She  was 
a  lively,  good-natured  girl,  whom  he  used  to  hear  coquetting  and 
playing  the  guitar  with  her  neighbors ;  and  it  was  greatly  on 
this  account,  that  her  considerate  and  hushing  gravity  struck 
him  whenever  she  entered  his  room.  One  day  he  heard  no 
more  coquetting,  nor  even  the  guitar.  He  asked  the  reason, 
when  she  came  to  give  him  some  drink  ;  and  she  said  she  had 
heard  him  mention  some  noise  that  disturbed  him. 

"  But  you  do  not  call  your  voice  and  your  music  a  noise,"  said 
lie,  "  do  you,  Rosaura  ?  I  hope  not,  for  I  had  expected  it  would 
give  me  strength  to  get  rid  of  this  fever  and  reach  home." 

Rosaura  turned  pale,  and  let  the  patient  into  a  secret ;  but 
what  surprised  and  delighted  him  was,  that  she  played  her 
guitar  nearly  as  often  as  before,  and  sang,  too,  only  less 
sprightly  airs. 

"  You  get  better  and  better,  Signor,"  said  she,  "  every  day, 
and  your  mother  will  see  you  and  be  happy.  I  hope  you  will 
tell  her  what  a  good  doctor  you  had." 


■4  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xliu 

"  The  best  in  the  world,"  cried  he  ;  and,  as  he  sat  up  in  bed 
he  put  his  arm  round  her  waist  and  kissed  her. 

"  Pardon  me,  Signora,"  said  the  poor  girl  to  her  hostess ; 
*'  but  I  felt  that  arm  round  my  waist  for  a  week  after  :  ay,  almost 
as  much  as  if  it  had  been  there." 

"  And  Charles  felt  that  you  did,"  thought  his  mother ;  "  for  he 
never  told  me  the  story." 

"  He  begged  my  pardon,"  continued  she,  "  as  I  was  hastening 
out  of  the  room,  and  hoped  I  should  not  construe  his  warmth 
into  impertinence.  And  to  hear  him  talk  so  tome,  who  used  to 
fear  what  he  might  think  ol  vself ;  it  made  me  stand  in  the 
passage,  and  lean  my  head  agains  the  wall,  and  weep  such  bitter, 
and  yet  such  sweet  tears  ! — an.  ..e  did  not  hear  them.  No, 
Madam,  he  did  not  know,  indeed,  how  much  I — how  much  I — " 

"  Loved  him,  child,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Montague  ;  "  you  have 
a  right  to  say  so,  and  I  wish  he  had  been  alive  to  say  as  much 
to  you  himself." 

"  Oh,  good  God !"  said  the  dying  girl,  her  tears  flowing  away, 
"  this  is  too  great  a  happiness  for  me,  to  hear  his  own  mother 
talking  so."  And  again  she  lays  her  weak  head  upon  the  lady's 
hand. 

The  latter  would  have  persuaded  her  to  sleep  again ;  but  she 
said  she  could  not  sleep  for  joy  :  "  for  I'll  tell  you,  Madam," 
continued  she,  "  I  do  not  believe  you  will  think  it  foolish,  for 
something  very  grave  at  my  heart  tells  me  it  is  not  so  ;  but  I 
have  had  a  long  thought "  (and  her  voice  and  look  grew  more 
exalted  as  she  spoke),  "  which  has  supported  me  through  much 
toil  and  many  disagreeable  things,  to  this  country  and  this  place  ; 
and  I  will  tell  you  what  it  is,  and  how  it  came  to  my  mind.  I 
received  this  letter  from  your  son." 

Here  she  drew  out  a  paper  which,  though  carefully  wrapped 
up  in  several  others,  was  much  worn  at  the  sides.  It  was  dated 
from  the  village,  and  ran  thus : — • 

"  '  This  comes  from  the  Englishman  whom  Rosaura  nursed  so 
kindly  at  Florence.  She  will  be  sorry  to  hear  that  her  kindness 
was  in  vain,  for  he  is  dying  ;  and  he  sometimes  fears  that  her 
sorrow  will  be  greater  than  he  could  wish  it  to  be.  But  marry 
one  of  your  kind  countrymen,  my  good  girl  ;   for  all  must  love 


CHAP.  XLiii.]  THE  ITALIAN  GIRT,.  If 

Rosaura  who  know  lier.  If  it  shall  be  my  lot  ever  to  meet  her 
in  heaven,  I  will  thank  her  as  a  blessed  tongue  only  can.' 

"  As  soon  as  I  read  this  letter,  Madam,"  continues  Rosaura, 
"  and  what  he  had  said  about  heaven,  it  flashed  into  my  head, 
that,  though  I  did  not  deserve  him  on  earth,  I  might,  perhaps,  by 
trying  and  patience,  deserve  to  be  joined  with  him  in  heaven, 
where  there  is  no  distinction  of  persons.  My  uncle  was  pleased 
to  see  me  become  a  religious  pilgrim ;  but  he  knew  as  little  of 
the  world  as  I,  and  I  found  that  I  could  earn  my  way  to  England 
better,  and  quite  as  religiously,  by  playing  my  guitar,  which  was 
also  more  independent ;  and  I  had  often  heard  your  son  talk  of 
independence  and  freedom,  and  commend  me  for  doing  what  he 
was  pleased  to  call  so  much  kindness  toothers.  So  I  played  my 
guitar  from  Florence  all  the  way  to  England,  and  all  that  I 
earned  by  it  I  gave  away  to  the  poor,  keeping  enough  to  procure 
me  lodging.  I  lived  on  bread  and  water,  and  used  to  weep 
happy  tears  over  it,  because  I  looked  up  to  heaven,  and  thought 
he  might  see  me.  I  have  sometimes,  though  not  often,  met  with 
small  insults ;  but  if  ever  they  threatened  to  grow  greater,  I 
begged  the  people  to  desist,  in  the  kindest  way  1  could,  even 
smiling,  and  saying  I  would  please  them  if  I  had  the  heart  ; 
which  might  be  wrong,  but  it  seemed  as  if  deep  thoughts  told 
me  to  say  so  ;  and  they  used  to  look  astonished,  and  left  off; 
which  made  me  the  more  hope  that  St.  Philip  and  the  Holy 
Virgin  did  not  think  ill  of  my  endeavors.  So  playing,  and 
giving  alms,  in  this  manner,  I  arrived  in  the  neighborhood  of 
your  beloved  village,  where  I  fell  sick  for  a  while,  and  was  very 
kindly  treated  in  an  out-house ;  though  the  people,  I  thought,  seem- 
ed to  look  strange  and  afraid  on  this  crucifix — (though  your  son 
never  did), — though  he  taught  me  to  think  kindly  of  everybody, 
and  hope  the  best,  and  leave  everything,  except  our  own  endeavors, 
to  Heaven.  I  fell  sick.  Madam,  because  I  found  for  certain  that  the 
Signor  Montague  was  dead,  albeit  I  had  no  hope  that  he  was  alive." 

She  stopped  awhile  for  breath,  for  she  was  growing  weaker 
and  weaker,  and  her  hostess  would  fain  have  had  her  keep 
silence  ;  but  she  pressed  her  hand,  as  well  as  she  migiit,  and 
prayed  with  such  a  patient  panting  of  voice  to  be  allowed  to 
go  on,  that  she  was.     She  smiled  thankfully  and  resumed  :  — 


16  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap  xli 

"  So  when — so  when  I  got  my  strength  a  little  again,  I  walked 
on  and  came  to  the  beloved  village,  and  I  saw  the  beautiful  white 
church  spire  in  the  trees  ;  and  I  then  knew  where  his  body  slept, 
and  I  thought  some  kind  person  would  help  me  to  die,  with  my 
face  looking  towards  the  churcb,  as  it  now  does ;  and  death  is 
upon  me,  even  now :  but  lift  me  a  little  higher  on  the  pillows, 
dear  lady,  that  I  may  see  the  green  ground  of  the  hill." 

She  was  raised  up  as  she  wished,  and  after  looking  awhile, 
with  a  placid  feebleness,  at  the  hill,  said  in  a  very  low  voice, 
"  Say  one  prayer  for  me,  dear  lady  ;  and  if  it  be  not  too  proud 
in  me,  call  me  in  it  your  daughter." 

The  mother  of  her  beloved  summoned  up  a  grave  and  earnest 
voice,  as  well  as  she  might,  and  knelt  and  said,  "  O  Heavenly 
Father  of  us  all,  who  in  the  midst  of  thy  manifold  and  merciful 
bounties  bringest  us  into  strong  passes  of  anguish,  which  never- 
theless thou  enablest  us  to  go  through,  look  down,  we  beseech 
thee,  upon  this  thy  young  and  innocent  servant,  the  daughter — 
that  might  have  been — of  my  heart,  and  enable  her  spirit  to  pass 
through  the  struggling  bonds  of  mortality,  and  be  gathered  into 
thy  rest,  with  those  we  love.  Do,  dear  and  great  God,  of 
thy  infinite  mercy,  for  we  are  poor  weak  creatures,  both  young 
and  old — "  here  her  voice  melted  away  into  a  breathing  tearful- 
ness ;  and  after  remaining  on  her  knees  a  moment  longer,  she 
rose  and  looked  upon  the  bed,  and  saw  that  the  weary  smiling 
oiie  was  no  more. 


CHAP   XLIVJ  A  "NOW."  JT 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

"  A  Now." — Descriptive  of  a  Hot  Day. 

Now  the  rosy-  (and  lazy-)  fingered  Aurora,  issuing  from  her 
saffron  house,  calls  up  the  moist  vapors  to  surround  her,  and 
goes  veiled  with  them  as  long  as  she  can  ;  till  Phoebus,  coming 
forth  in  his  power,  looks  everything  out  of  the  sky,  and  holds 
sharp  uninterrupted  empire  from  his  throne  of  beams.  Now  the 
mower  begins  to  make  his  sweeping  cuts  more  slowly,  and  re- 
sorts oflener  to  the  beer.  Now  the  carter  sleeps  a-topof  his  load 
of  hay,  or  plods  with  double  slouch  of  shoulder,  looking  out  with 
eyes  winking  under  his  shading  hat,  and  with  a  hitch  upward  of 
one  side  of  his  mouth.  Now  the  little  girl  at  her  grandmother's 
cottage-door  watches  the  coaches  that  go  by,  with  her  hand  held 
up  over  her  sunny  forehead.  Now  laborers  look  well  resting  in 
their  white  shirts  at  the  doors  of  rural  ale-houses.  Now  an  elm 
is  fine  there,  with  a  seat  under  it ;  and  horses  drink  out  of  the 
trough,  stretching  their  yearning  necks  with  loosened  collars  ; 
and  the  traveller  calls  for  his  glass  of  ale,  having  been  without 
one  for  more  than  ten  minutes ;  and  his  horse  stands  wincing  at 
the  flies,  giving  sharp  shivers  of  his  skin,  and  moving  to  and  fro 
his  ineffectual  docked  tail  ;  and  now  Miss  Betty  Wilson,  the 
host's  daughter,  comes  streaming  forth  in  a  flowered  gown  and 
ear-rings,  carrying  with  four  of  her  beautiful  fingers  the  foam- 
ing glass,  for  which,  after  the  traveller  has  drank  it,  she  receives 
with  an  indifferent  eye,  looking  another  way,  the  lawful  two- 
pence. Now  grasshoppers  "  fry,"  as  Dryden  says.  Now  cat- 
tle stand  in  water,  and  ducks  are  envied.  Now  boots,  and 
shoes,  and  trees  by  the  road-side,  are  thick  with  dust ;  and  dogs, 
rolling  in  it,  after  issuing  out  of  the  water,  into  which  they  have 
been  thrown  to  fetch  sticks,  come  scattering  horror  among  the 
lege  of  the  spectators.     Now  a   fellow  who  finds  he   has  three 


18  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xi.iv. 

miles  further  to  go  in  a  pair  of  tight  shoes,  is  in  a  pretty  situa- 
tion.  Now  rooms  with  the  sun  upon  them  become  intolerable, ; 
and  the  apothecary's  apprentice,  with  a  bitterness  beyond  aloes, 
thinks  of  the  pond  he  used  to  bathe  in  at  school.  Now  men  with 
powdered  heads  (especially  if  thick)  envy  those  that  are  unpow- 
dered,  and  stop  to  wipe  them  up  hill,  with  countenances  that 
seem  to  expostulate  with  destiny.  Now  boys  assemble  round 
the  village  pump  with  a  ladle  to  it,  and  delight  to  make  a  for- 
bidden splash  and  get  wet  through  the  shoes.  Now  also  they 
make  suckers  of  leather,  and  bathe  all  day  long  in  rivers  and 
ponds,  and  make  mighty  fishings  for  "  tittlebats."  Now  the  bee, 
as  he  hums  along,  seems  to  be  talking  heavily  of  the  heat.  Now 
doors  and  brick-walls  are  burning  to  the  hand  ;  and  a  walled 
lane,  with  dust  and  broken  bottles  in  it,  near  a  brick-field,  is  a 
thing  not  to  be  thought  of.  Now  a  green  lane,  on  the  contrary, 
thick-set  with  hedge-row  elms,  and  having  the  noise  of  a  brook 
"  rumbling  in  pebble-stone,"  is  one  of  the  pleasantest  things  in 
the  world. 

Now,  in  town,  gossips  talk  more  than  ever  to  one  another,  in 
rooms,  in  door-ways,  and  out  of  window,  always  beginning  the 
conversation  with  saying  that  the  heat  is  overpowering.  Now 
blinds  are  let  down,  and  doors  thrown  open,  and  flannel  waist- 
coats left  off",  and  cold  meat  preferred  to  hot,  and  wonder  ex- 
pressed why  tea  continues  so  refreshing,  and  people  delight  to 
sliver  lettuces  into  bowls,  and  apprentices  water  door- ways  with  tin 
canisters  that  lay  several  atoms  of  dust.  Now  the  water-cart, 
jumbling  along  the  middle  of  the  street,  and  jolting  the  showers 
out  of  its  box  of  water,  really  does  something.  Now  fruiterers' 
shops  and  dairies  look  pleasant,  and  ices  are  the  only  things  to 
those  who  can  get  them.  Now  ladies  loiter  in  baths  ;  and  peo- 
pie  make  presents  of  flowers  ;  and  wine  is  put  into  ice ;  and  the 
after-dinner  lounger  recreates  his  head  with  applications  of  per- 
fumed water  out  of  long-necked  bottles.  Now  the  lounger,  who 
cannot  resist  riding  his  new  horse,  feels  his  boots  burn  him. 
Now  buck-skins  are  not  the  lawn  of  Cos.  Now  jockeys,  walk- 
ing in  greatcoats  to  lose  flesh,  curse  inwardly.  Now  five  fat 
people  in  a  atage  coach  hate  the  sixth  fat  one  who  is  coming  in, 
and  think  he  has  no  right  to  be  so  large.     Now  clerks  in  office 


CHAP.  XLiv.J  A  "  NOW."  19 

do  nothing  but  drink  soda-water  and  spruce-beer,  and  read  the 
newspaper.  Now  the  old-clothesman  drops  his  solitary  cry 
more  deeply  into  the  areas  on  the  hot  and  forsaken  side  of  the 
street ;  and  bakers  look  vicious ;  and  cooks  are  aggravated  ; 
and  the  steam  of  a  tavern-kitchen  catches  hold  of  us  like  the 
breath  of  Tartarus.  Now  delicate  skins  are  beset  with  gnats  ; 
and  boys  make  their  sleeping  companion  start  up,  with  playing  a 
burning-glass  on  his  hand  ;  and  blacksmiths  are  super-carbonat- 
ed ;  and  cobblers  in  their  stalls  almost  feel  a  wish  to  be  trans- 
planted ;  and  butter  is  too  easy  to  spread ;  and  the  dragoons 
wonder  whether  the  Romans  liked  their  helmets  ;  and  old  ladies, 
with  their  lappets  unpinned,  walk  along  in  a  state  of  dilapidation  ; 
and  the  servant  maids  are  afraid  they  look  vulgarly  hot  ;  and 
the  author,  who  has  a  plate  of  strawberries  brought  him,  finds 
that  he  has  come  to  the  end  of  his  writing. 

We  cannot  conclude  this  article,  however,  without  returning 
thanks,  both  on  our  own  account  and  on  that  of  our  numerous 
predecessors,  who  have  left  so  large  a  debt  of  gratitude  unpaid, 
to  this  very  useful  and  ready  monosyllable — "Now."  We  are 
sure  that  there  is  not  a  didactic  poet,  ancient  or  modern,  who,  if 
he  possessed  a  decent  share  of  candor,  would  not  be  happy  to 
own  his  obligations  to  that  masterly  conjunction,  which  pos- 
sesses the  very  essence  of  wit,  for  it  has  the  art  of  bringing  the 
most  remote  things  together.  And  its  generosity  is  in  proportion 
to  its  wit,  for  it  always  is  most  profuse  of  its  aid  where  it  is  most 
wanted. 

We  must  enjoy  a  pleasant  passage  with  the  reader  on  the  sub- 
ject of  this  "eternal  Now  "  in  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  play  of 
the  Woman-Hater. — Upon  turning  to  it,  we  perceive  that  our 
illustrious  particle  does  not  make  quite  so  great  a  figure  as  we 
imagined  ;  but  the  whole  passage  is  in  so  analogous  a  taste,  and 
afTcrds  such  an  agreeable  specimen  of  the  wit  and  humor  with 
which  fine  poets  could  rally  the  common-places  of  their  art,  that 
we  cannot  help  proceeding  with  it.  Lazarcllo,  a  foolish  table- 
hunter,  has  requested  an  introduction  to  the  Duke  of  Milan,  who 
has  had  a  fine  lamprey  presented  him.  Before  the  introduction 
takes  place,  he  finds  that  the  Duke  has  given  the  fish  away  ;  so 
that  his  wish  to  be  known  to  him  goes  with  it ;  and  part  of  the 

2.3 


10  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  xliv. 

rl  I'lr  i-y  of  the  passage  arises  from  his  uneasiness  at  being  de- 
tained b}^  the  consequences  of  his  own  request,  and  his  fear  lest 
he  sliould  be  too  late  for  the  lamprey  elsewhere. 

Count  {aside  to  the  Duke).     Let  me  entreat  your  Grace  to  stay 
a  little, 
To  know  a  gentleman,  to  whom  yourself 
Is  much  beholding.     He  hath  made  the  sport 
For  your  whole  court  these  eight  years,  on  my  knowledge. 

Duke.  His  name  ? 

Count.  Lazarello. 

Duke.  I  heard  of  him  this  morning  : — which  is  he  ? 

Count  {aside  to  Laz).  Lazarello,  pluck  up  thy  spirits.  Thy 
foitune  is  now  raising.  The  Duke  calls  for  thee,  and  thou  shalt 
be  acquainted  with  him. 

Laz.  He's  going  away,  and  I  must  of  necessity  stay  here  upon 
business. 

Count.  'Tis  all  one  :  thou  shalt  know  him  first. 

Laz.  Stay  a  little.  If  he  should  offer  to  take  me  with  him, 
and  by  that  means  I  should  lose  that  which  I  seek  for  !  But  if 
he  should,  I  will  not  go  with  him. 

Count.  Lazarello,  the  Duke  stays.  Wilt  thou  lose  this  op- 
portunity  ? 

Laz.  How  must  I  speak  to  him  ? 

Count.  'Twas  well  thought  off.  You  must  not  talk  to  him  as 
you  do  to  an  ordinary  man,  honest  plain  sense  ;  but  you  must 
wind  about  him.  For  example,  if  he  should  ask  you  what 
o'clock  it  is,  you  must  not  say,  "  If  it  please  your  Grace,  'tis 
nine  ;" — but  thus  ; — "  Thrice  three  o'clock,  so  please  my  Sove- 
reign — or  thus  : — 

*'  Look  how  many  Muses  there  do  dwell 
Upon  the  sweet  banks  of  the  learned  well, 
And  just  so  many  strokes  the  clock  hath  struck ;" 
and  so  forth.     And  you  must  now  and  then  enter  into  a  descrip- 
tion. 

Laz.  I  hope  I  shall  do  it. 

Count.  Come. — May  it  please  your  Grace  to  take  note  of  a 
gentleman,  well  seen,  deeply  read,  and  thoroughly  grounded  in 
tJie  hidden  knowledge  of  all  sallets  and  pot-herbs  whatsoever. 


CHAP.  XXW.]  A  "  NOW.' 


51 


Duke.     I  shall  desire  to  know  him  more  inwardly. 

Laz.   I  kiss  the  ox-hide  of  your  Grace's  foot. 
Count  {aside  to  Laz.).  Very  well.— Will  your  Grace  (luestion 
him  a  little  ? 

Duke.  How  old  are  you  ? 

Laz.  Full  eight-and -twenty  several  almanacks 
Have  been  compiled,  all  for  several  years, 
Since  first  I  drew  this  breath.     Four  'prenticeships 
Have  I  most  truly  served  in  this  world  : 
And  eight-and-twenty  times  hath  Phcebus'  car 
Run  out  his  yearly  course,  since 

Duke.  I  understand  you,  Sir. 

Lucio.  How  like  an  ignorant  poet  he  talks  ! 

Duke.  You  are  eight-and-twenty  years  old  ? 
What  time  of  the  day  do  you  hold  it  to  be  ? 

Laz.  About  the  time  that  mortals  whet  their  knives 
On  thresholds,  on  their  shoe-soles,  and  on  stairs. 
Now  bread  is  grating,  and  the  testy  cook 
Hath  much  to  do  now  ;  now  the  tables  all 

Duke.  'Tis  almost  dinner-time  ? 

Laz.  Your  Grace  doth  apprehend  me  very  rightly. 


29  THE  INDICATOR. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

The  Honorable  Mr.  Boyle. 

The  celebrated  Robert  Boyle,  the  chemist,  was  accounted  in 
his  days  a  sort  of  perfection  of  a  man,  especially  in  all  respects 
intellectual,  moral,  and  religious.  This  excellent  person  was  in 
the  habit  of  moralizing  upon  everything  that  he  did  or  suffered  ; 
such  as,  "  Upon  his  manner  of  giving  meat  to  his  dog," — "  Upon 
his  horse  stumbling  in  a  very  fair  way," — "  Upon  his  sitting  at 
ease  in  a  coach  that  went  very  fast,"  &c.  Among  other  Reflec- 
tions, is  one  "  Upon  a  fish's  struggling  after  having  swallowed 
the  hook."  It  amounts  to  this:  that  at  the  moment  when  the 
fish  thinks  himself  about  to  be  most  happy,  the  hook  "  does  so 
wound  and  tear  his  tender  gills,  and  thereby  puts  him  into 
such  restless  pain,  that,  no  doubt,  he  wishes  the  hook,  bait  and 
all,  were  out  of  his  torn  jaws  again.  Thus,"  says  he,  "  men  who 
do  what  they  should  not,  to  obtain  any  sensual  desires,"  &c.,  &c. 
Not  a  thought  comes  over  him  as  to  his  own  part  in  the  business, 
and  what  he  ought  to  say  of  himself  for  tearing  the  jaws  and 
gills  to  indulge  his  own  appetite  for  excitement.  Take  also  the 
following : — "  Fifth  Section — Reflection  I.  Killing  a  crow  (out 
of  window)  in  a  hog's  trough,  and  immediately  tracing  the 
ensuing  reflection  with  a  pen  made  of  one  of  his  quills. — Long 
and  patiently  did  I  wait  for  this  unlucky  crow,  wallowing  in 
the  sluttish  trough  (whose  sides  kept  him  a  great  while  out  of 
the  reach  of  my  gun),  and  gorging  himself  with  no  less  greedi- 
ness than  the  very  swinish  proprietaries  of  the  feast,  till  at 
length,  my  no  less  unexpected  than  fatal  shot  in  a  moment  struck 
him  down  ;  and  turning  the  scene  of  his  delight  into  that  of  his 
pangs,  made  him  abruptly  alter  his  note,  and  change  his  trium- 
phant chaunt  into  a  dismal  and  tragic  noise.  This  method  is 
not  unusual  to  divine  justice  towards  brawny  and  incorrigible 
sinners,"  &c.,  &ic.  Thus  the  crow,  for  eating  his  dinner,  is  a 
rascal  worthy  to   be  shot  by  the  Flonorable  Mr.   Robert  Boyle 


CHAP  XLvi.]  THE  HONORABLE  MR.  BOYLE.  01 

before  the  latter  sits  down  to  his  own  ;  while  the  said  Mr.  Boyle, 
instead  of  contenting  himself  with  being  a  gentleman  in  search 
of  amusement  at  the  expense  of  birds  and  fish,  is  a  representa- 
tive of  Divine  Justice. 

We  laugh  at  this  wretched  moral  pedantry  now,  and  deplore 
the  involuntary  hard-heartedness  which  such  mistakes  in  religion 
tended  to  produce  ;  but  in  how  many  respects  should  it  not  make 
us  look  about  ourselves,  and  see  where  we  fall  short  of  an  en^ 
largement  of  thinking  ? 


23* 


U  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  xlvi. 


CHAPTER  XLVl. 

Superfine   Breeding. 

There  is  an  anecdote  in  Aulus  Gellius  {Nodes  AtticcB,  lib.  10, 
cap.  vi.)  which  exhibits,  we  think,  one  of  the  highest  instances 
of  what  may  be  called  polite  blackguardism,  that  we  remember 
to  have  read.  The  fastidiousness,  self-will,  and  infinite  resent- 
ment against  a  multitude  of  one's  fellow-creatures  for  presuming 
to  come  in  contact  with  our  importance,  are  truly  edifying ;  and 
to  complete  the  lesson,  this  extraordinary  specimen  of  the  effect 
of  superfine  breeding  and  blood  is  handed  down  to  us  in 
the  person  of  a  lady.  Her  words  might  be  thought  to  have 
been  a  bad  joke  ;  and  bad  enough  it  would  have  been  ;  but  the 
sense  that  was  shown  of  them  proves  them  to  have  been  very 
gravely  regarded. 

Claudia,  the  daughter  of  Appius  CiEcus,  in  coming  away  from 
a  public  spectacle,  was  much  pressed  and  pushed  about  by  the 
crowd  ;  upon  which  she  thus  vented  her  impatience  : — "  What 
should  I  have  suffered  now,  and  how  much  more  should  I  have 
been  squeezed  and  knocked  about,  if  my  brother  Publius  Clau- 
dius had  not  had  his  ships  destroyed  in  battle,  with  all  that  heap 
of  men  1  I  should  have  been  absolutely  jammed  to  death  ! 
Would  to  heaven  my  brother  were  alive  again,  and  could  go  with 
another  fleet  to  Sicily,  and  be  the  death  of  this  host  of  people, 
who  plague  and  pester  one  in  this  horrid  manner  !"  * 

For  these  words,  "  so  wicked  and  so  uncivic,"  says  good  old 
Gellius  (tam  improba  ac  tam  incivilia)  the  ^Ediles,  Caius  Fun- 

*  "  Quid  me  nunc  factum  esset,  quantoque  arctius  pressiusque  conflictata 
essem,  si  P.  Claudius  frater  meus  navali  praelio  classem  navium  cum  ingen- 
ti  civium  numero  non  perdidisset  ?  certe  ([uidem  majore  nunc  copia  populi 
oppressa  intercidissem.  Sed  utinam,  inquit,  reviviscat  frater,  aliamquf 
classem  in  Siciliam  ducat,  atque  istam  multitudinem  eat,  quae  me  mi' 
nunc  miseram  convexavit." 


CHAP.  XLvi.]  SUPERFINE  BREEDING.  25 

danus  and  Tiberius  Sempronius,  got  the  lady  fined  in  tlic  suui  of 
twenty-five  thousand  pounds  brass.  There  is  a  long  account, 
in  Livy,  of  the  speech  which  they  made  to  the  people  in  reply 
to  the  noble  families  that  interceded  for  her.  It  is  very  indig- 
nant. Claudia  herself  confessed  her  words,  and  does  not  ap- 
pear to  have  joined  in  the  intercession.  They  are  not  related  at 
such  length  by  Livy,  as  by  Aulus  Gellius.  He  merely  makes 
her  wish  that  her  brother  were  alive  to  take  out  another  fleet. 
But  he  shows  his  sense  of  the  ebullition  by  calling  it  a  dreadful 
imprecation  ;  and  her  rage  was  even  more  gratuitous,  according 
to  his  account ;  for  he  describes  her  as  coming  from  the  shows  in 
a  chariot. 

Insolence  and  want  of  feeling  appear  to  have  been  hereditary 
in  this  Appian  family :  which  gives  us  also  a  strong  sense  of 
their  want  of  capacity ;  otherwise  a  disgust  at  such  manners 
must  have  been  generated  in  some  of  the  children.  They  were 
famous  for  opposing  every  popular  law,  and  for  having  kept  the 
commons  as  long  as  possible  out  of  any  share  in  public  honors  and 
government.  The  villain  Appius  Claudius,  whose  story  has  been 
made  still  more  familiar  to  the  public  by  the  tragedy  of  Mr. 
Knowles,  was  among  its  ancestors.  Appius  Csecus,  or  the  Blind, 
the  father  of  Claudia,  though  he  constructed  the  celebrated  Ap- 
pian Way  and  otherwise  benefited  the  city,  was  a  very  unpo- 
pular man,  wilful,  haughty,  and  lawless.  He  retained  posses- 
sion of  the  Censorship  beyond  the  limited  period.  It  is  an  in- 
stance perhaps  of  his  unpopularity,  as  well  as  of  the  supersti- 
tion of  the  times,  that  having  made  a  change  in  one  of  the  priestly 
offices,  and  become  blind  some  years  afterwards,  the  Romans  at- 
tributed it  to  the  vengeance  of  heaven ;  an  opinion  which  Livy 
repeats  with  great  devotion,  calling  it  a  warning  against  inno- 
vations in  religion.  It  had  no  effect,  however,  upon  Claudius 
the  brother,  whose  rashness  furnished  the  pious  Romans  with  a 
similar  example  to  point  at.  Before  an  engagement  with  the 
Carthaginians,  the  Sacred  Chickens  were  consulted,  and  because 
they  would  not  peck  and  furnish  him  with  a  good  omen,  he  or- 
dered them  to  be  thrown  into  the  sea.  "If  they  won't  eat," 
says  he,  "let  'em  drink."  The  engagement  was  one  of  the 
worst  planned  and  the  worst  fought  in  the  world  ;  Init  the  men 


26  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  xlvi. 

were  dispirited  by  the  Consul's  irreverent  behavior  to  the  chick- 
ens ;  and  his  impiety  shared  the  disgrace  with  his  folly.  Livy 
represents  him  as  an  epitome  of  all  that  was  bad  in  his  family; 
proud,  stubborn,  unmerciful,  though  full  of  faults  himself,  and 
wilful  and  precipitate  to  a  degree  of  madness.  This  was  the 
battle,  of  which  his  sister  wished  to  see  a  repetition.  It  cost  the 
Romans  many  ships  sunk,  ninety-three  taken,  and  according  to 
the  historian,  the  miraculous  loss  of  eight  thousand  men  killed 
and  twenty  thousand  taken  prisoners,  while  the  Carthaginians 
lost  not  a  ship  or  a  man. 


CHAP.  XLvii.]  SHAKING  HANDS.  4i 


CHAPTER  XL VII. 

Shaking  Hands. 

Among  the  first  things  which  we  remember  noticing  in  the  man- 
ners of  people,  were  two  errors  in  the  custom  of  shaking  hands. 
Some  we  observed,  grasped  everybody's  hand  alike, — with  an 
equal  fervor  of  grip.  You  would  have  thought  that  Jenkins  was 
the  best  friend  they  had  in  the  world ;  but  on  succeeding  to  the 
squeeze,  though  a  slight  acquaintance,  you  found  it  equally  flat- 
tering to  yourself;  and  on  the  appearance  of  somebody  else 
(whose  name,  it  turned  out,  the  operator  had  forgotten),  the  crush 
was  no  less  complimentary  : — the  face  was  as  earnest,  and 
beaming  the  "  glad  to  see  you"  as  syllabical  and  sincere,  and 
the  shake  as  close,  as  long,  and  as  rejoicing,  as  if  the  semi-un- 
known was  a  friend  come  home  from  the  Deserts. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  would  be  a  gentleman,  now  and  then, 
as  coy  of  his  hand,  as  if  he  were  a  prude,  or  had  a  whitlow.  It  ' 
was  in  vain  that  your  pretensions  did  not  go  beyond  the  "  civil 
salute"  of  the  ordinary  shake  ;  or  that  being  introduced  to  him 
in  a  friendly  manner,  and  expected  to  shake  hands  with  the  rest 
of  the  company,  you  could  not  in  decency  omit  his.  His  fingers, 
half  coming  out  and  half  retreating,  seemed  to  think  that  you 
were  going  to  do  them  a  mischief;  and  when  you  got  hold  oi 
them,  the  whole  shake  was  on  your  side  ;  the  other  hand  did  but 
proudly  or  pensively  acquiesce — there  was  no  knowing  which  ; 
you  had  to  sustain  it,  as  you  might  a  lady's,  in  handing  her  to  a 
seat ;  and  it  was  an  equal  perplexity  to  know  whether  to  shake 
or  to  let  it  go.  The  one  seemed  a  violence  done  to  the  patient, 
the  other  an  awkward  responsibility  brought  upon  yourself.  You 
did  not  know,  all  the  evening,  whether  you  were  not  an  object  of 
dislike  to  the  person  ;  till,  on  tlie  party's  breaking  up,  you  saw 
him  behave  like  an  equally  ill-used  gentleman  to  all  who  prac- 
tised the  same  unthinking  civility. 


'2S  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xlvti. 

Both  these  errors,  we  think,  migh.t  as  well  be  avoided  ;  but,  of 
the  two,  we  must  say  we  prefer  the  former.  If  it  does  not  look 
so  much  like  particular  sincerity,  it  looks  more  like  general 
kindness ;  and  if  those  two  virtues  are  to  be  separated  (which 
they  assuredly  need  not  be,  if  considered  without  spleen),  the 
vi'orld  can  better  afford  to  dispense  with  an  unpleasant  truth  than 
a  gratuitous  humanity.  Besides,  it  is  more  difficult  to  make 
sure  of  the  one  than  to  practise  the  other,  and  kindness  itself  is 
the  best  of  all  truths.  As  long  as  we  are  sure  of  that,  we  are 
sure  of  something,  and  of  something  pleasant.  It  is  always  the 
best  end,  if  not  in  every  instance  the  most  logical  means. 

This  manual  shyness  is  sometimes  attributed  to  modesty,  but 
never,  we  suspect,  with  justice,  unless  it  be  that  sort  of  modesty 
whose  fear  of  committing  itself  is  grounded  in  pride.  Want  of 
address  is  a  better  reason;  but  this  particular  instance  of  it 
would  be  grounded  in  the  same  feeling.  It  always  implies  a 
habit  either  of  pride  or  mistrust.  We  have  met  with  two  really 
kind  men  who  evinced  this  soreness  of  hand.  Neither  of  them, 
perhaps,  thought  himself  inferior  to  anybody  about  him,  and  both 
had  good  reason  to  think  highly  of  themselves,  but  both  had  been 
sanguine  men,  contradicted  in  their  early  hopes.  There  was  a 
plot  to  meet  the  hand  of  one  of  them  with  a  fish-slice,  in  order 
to  show  him  the  disadvantage  to  which  he  put  his  friends  by 
that  flat  mode  of  salutation  ;  but  the  conspirator  liad  not  the 
courage  to  do  it.  Whether  he  heard  of  the  intention  we  know 
not,  but  shortly  afterwards  he  took  very  kindly  to  a  shake.  The 
other*  was  the  only  man  of  a  warm  set  of  politicians,  who  re- 
mained true  to  his  first  hopes  of  mankind.  He  was  impatient 
at  the  change  in  his  companions,  and  at  the  folly  and  inattention 
of  the  rest ;  but  though  his  manner  became  cold,  his  consistency 
remained  warm,  and  this  gave  him  a  right  to  be  as  strange  as 
he  pleased. 

•The  late  Mr.  Hazlitt 


CHAP.  XLviii.]  ON  RECEIVING  A  SPRIG  OF  LAUREL.  39 


CHAPTER  XL VIII. 

On  receiving  a  Sprig  of  Laurel  from  Vaucluse. 

And  this  piece  of  laurel  is  from  Vaucluse  !  Perhaps  Petrarch, 
perhaps  Laura  sat  under  it !  This  is  a  true  present.  What  an 
exquisite,  dry,  old,  vital,  young-looking,  everlasting  twig  it  is ! 
It  has  been  plucked  nine  months,  and  yet  looks  as  hale  and  as 
crisp  as  if  it  would  last  ninety  years.  It  shall  last,  at  any  rate, 
as  long  as  its  owner,  and  longer,  if  care  and  love  can  preserve 
it.  How  beautifully  it  is  turned !  It  was  a  happy  pull  from 
the  tree.  Its  shape  is  the  very  line  of  beauty ;  it  has  berries 
upon  it,  as  if  resolved  to  show  us  in  what  fine  condition  the 
trees  are  ;  while  the  leaves  issue  from  it,  and  swerve  upwards 
with  their  elegant  points,  as  though  they  had  come  from  adorn- 
ing the  poet's  head.  Be  thou  among  the  best  of  one's  keepsakes, 
thou  gentle  stem,  in  deliciis  nostris  ;  and  may  the  very  maid- 
servant, who  wonders  to  see  thy  withered  beauty  in  its  frame, 
miss  her  lover  the  next  five  weeks,  for  not  having  the  instinct  to 
know  that  thou  must  have  something  to  do  with  love  ! 

Perhaps  Petrarch  has  fell  the  old  ancestral  bough  of  this 
branch  stretching  over  his  head,  and  whispering  to  him  of  the 
name  of  Laura,  of  his  love,  and  of  their  future  glory ;  for  all 
these  ideas  used  to  be  entwined  in  one.  (Sestina  2,  canzone  17, 
sonetti  162,  163,  164,  207,  224,  &c.)  Perhaps  it  is  of  the  very . 
stock  of  that  bough,  which  he  describes  as  supplying  his  mis- 
tress with  a  leaning-stock,  when  she  sat  in  her  favorite  bovver. 

Giovane  donna  sotto  un  verde  lauro 
Vidi  piu  bianca  e  piu  fredda  che  neve 
Non  percossa  dal  sol  molti  e  molt'  anni ; 
E  '1  suo  parlar,  e  '1  bcl  viso,  e  le  chiome, 
Mi  piacqncr  si,  ch'  i'  I'ho  a  gli  occhi  miei, 
Ed  avro  sempre,  ov'  io  sia  in  poggio  o'n  riva. 

Part  I.,  sestina  2.        , 


30  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xlviii. 

A  youthful  lady  under  a  green  laurel 
I  saw,  more  fair  and  colder  than  white  snows 
VeiI'd  from  the  sun  for  many  and  many  a  year  : 
And  her  sweet  face,  and  hair,  and  way  of  speaking, 
So  pleased  me,  that  I  have  her  now  before  me. 
And  shall  have  ever,  whether  on  hill  or  lea- 

The  laurel  seems  more  appropriate  to  Petrarch  than  to  any 
ther  poet.  He  delighted  to  sit  under  its  leaves ;  he  loved  it  both  for 
itself  and  for  the  resemblance  of  its  name  to  that  of  his  mistress; 
he  wrote  of  it  continually,  and  he  was  called  from  out  of  its 
shade  to  be  crowned  with  it  in  the  capitol.  It  is  a  remarkable 
instance  of  the  fondness  with  which  he  cherished  the  united  idea 
of  Laura  and  the  laurel,  that  he  confesses  this  fancy  to  have  been 
one  of  the  greatest  delights  he  experienced  in  receiving  the 
crown  upon  his  head. 

It  was  out  of  Vaucluse  that  he  was  called.  Vaucluse,  ^al- 
chiusa,  the  Shut  Valley  (from  which  the  French,  in  the  modern 
enthusiasm  for  intellect,  gave  the  name  to  the  department  in 
which  it  lies),  is  a  remarkable  spot  in  the  old  poetical  region  of 
Provence,  consisting  of  a  little  deep  glen  of  green  meadows,  sur- 
rounded with  rocks,  and  containing  the  fountain  of  the  river 
Sorgue.  Petrarch,  when  a  boy  of  eight  or  nine  years  of  age, 
had  been  struck  with  its  beau^,  and  exclaimed  that  it  was  the 
place  of  all  others  he  should  like  to  live  in,  better  than  the  most 
splendid  cities.  He  resided  there  afterwards  for  several  years, 
and  composed  in  it  the  greater  part  of  his  poems.  Indeed,  he 
says  in  his  account  of  himself,  that  he  either  wrote  or  conceived, 
in  that  valley,  almost  every  work  he  produced.  He  lived  in  a 
little  cottage,  with  a  small  homestead,  on  the  banks  of  the  river. 
Here  he  thought  to  forget  his  passion  for  Laura,  and  here  he 
found  it  stronger  than  ever.  We  do  not  well  see  how  it  could 
have  been  otherwise  ;  for  Laura  lived  no  great  way  off,  at 
Chabrieres,  and  he  appears  to  have  seen  her  often  in  the  very 
place.  He  paced  along  the  river ;  he  sat  under  the  trees ; 
he  climbp  1  the  mountains;  but  Love,  he  says,  was  ever  by 
his  side, 

Ragionando  con  meco,  ed  io  con  lui. 

He  holding  talk  with  me,  and  I  with  him. 


CHAP.  xLviii.]  ON   RECEIVING  A  SPRIG  OF  LAUREL  31 

We  are  supposing  that  all  our  readers  are  acquainted  with 
Petrarch.  Many  of  them  doubtless  know  him  intimately.  Should 
any  of  them  want  an  introduction  to  him,  how  should  we  speak 
of  him  in  the  gross  ?  We  should  say  that  he  was  one  of  the 
finest  gentlemen  and  greatest  scholars  that  ever  lived  ;  that  Jio 
was  a  writer  who  flourished  in  Italy  in  the  14th  century,  at  the 
time  when  Chaucer  was  young,  during  the  reigns  of  our  Ed- 
wards ;  that  he  was  the  greatest  light  of  his  age ;  that,  although 
so  fine  a  writer  himself,  and  the  author  of  a  multitude  of  works, 
or  rather  because  he  was  both,  he  took  the  greatest  pains  to 
revive  the  knowledge  of  the  ancient  learning,  recommending  it 
everywhere,  and  copying  out  large  manuscripts  with  his  own 
hand  ;  that  two  great  cities,  Paris  and  Rome,  contended  which 
should  have  the  honor  of  crowning  him  ;  that  he  was  crowned 
publicly,  in  the  metropolis  of  the  world,  with  laurel  and  with 
myrtle  ;  that  he  was  the  friend  of  Boccaccio,  the  Father  of 
Italian  Prose  ;  and  lastly,  that  his  greatest  renown  nevertheless, 
as  well  as  the  predominant  feelings  of  his  existence,  arose  from 
the  long  love  he  bore  for  a  lady  of  Avignon,  the  far-famed  Laura, 
whom  he  fell  in  love  with  on  the  6th  of  April,  1327,  on  a  Good 
Friday  ;  whom  he  rendered  illustrious  in  a  multitude  of  sonnets, 
which  have  left  a  sweet  sound  and  sentiment  in  the  ear  of  all 
after  lovers  ;  and  who  died,  still  passionately  beloved,  in  the  year 
1348,  on  the  same  day  and  hour  on  which  he  first  beheld  her. 
Who  she  was,  or  why  their  connexion  was  not  closer,  remains 
a  mystery.  But  that  she  was  a  real  person,  and  that  in  spite  of 
her  staid  manners,  she  did  not  show  an  altogether  insensible 
countenance  to  his  passion,  is  clear  from  his  long-haunted  ima- 
gination, from  his  own  repeated  accounts — from  all  that  he  wrote, 
uttered  and  thought.  One  love,  and  one  poet,  sufficed  to  give 
the  whole  civilized  world  a  sense  of  delicacy  in  desire,  of  the 
abundant  riches  to  be  found  in  one  single  idea,  and  of  the  going 
out  of  a  man's  self  to  dwell  in  the  soul  and  happiness  of  another, 
which  has  served  to  refine  the  passion  for  all  modern  times  ;  and 
perhaps  will  do  so,  as  long  as  love  renews  the  world. 

24 


12  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xmx 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

Coaches. 

According  to  the  opinion  commonly  entertained  respecting  an 
author's  want  of  riches,  it  may  be  allowed  us  to  say,  that  we 
retain  from  childhood  a  considerable  notion  of  a  "  ride  in  a 
coach."  Nor  do  we  hesitate  to  confess,  that  by  coach,  we  espe- 
cially mean  a  hired  one ;  from  the  equivocal  dignity  of  the  post- 
chaise  down  to  that  despised  old  castaway,  the  hackney. 

It  is  true,  that  the  carriage,  as  it  is  indifferently  called  (as  if 
nothing  less  genteel  could  carry  any  one),  is  a  more  decided  thing 
than  the  chaise  ;  it  may  be  swifter  even  than  the  mail,  leaves 
the  stage  at  a  still  greater  distance  in  every  respect,  and  (forget- 
ting what  it  may  come  to  itself)  darts  by  the  poor  old  lumbering 
hackney  with  immeasurable  contempt.  It  rolls  with  a  prouder 
ease  than  any  other  vehicle.  It  is  full  of  cushions  and  comfort ; 
elegantly  colored  inside  and  out ;  rich,  yet  neat ;  light  and  rapid, 
yet  substantial.  The  horses  seem  proud  to  draw  it.  The  fat  and 
fair-wigged  coachman  "  lends  his  sounding  lash,"  his  arm  only 
in  action  and  that  but  little,  his  body  well  set  with  its  own  weight. 
The  footman,  in  the  pride  of  his  nonchalance,  holding  by  the 
straps  behind,  and  glancing  down  sideways  betwixt  his  cocked 
hat  and  neckcloth,  stands  swinging  from  east  to  west  upon  his 
springy  toes.  The  horses  rush  along  amidst  their  glancing  har- 
ness. Spotted  dogs  leap  about  them,  barking  with  a  princely 
superfluity  of  noise.  The  hammer-cloth  trembles  through  all  its 
fringe.  The  paint  flashes  in  the  sun.  We,  contemptuous  of 
everything  less  convenient,  bow  backwards  and  forwards  with  a 
certain  indifferent  air  of  gentility,  infinitely  predominant.  Sud- 
denly, with  a  happy  mixture  of  turbulence  and  truth,  the  carriage 
dashes  up  by  the  curb-stone  to  the  very  point  desired,  and  stops 
with  a  brdly  wilfulness  of  decision.  The  coachman  looks  as  if 
nothing  .lad  happened.  The  footman  is  down  in  an  instant ;  the 
knocker  reverberates  into  the  farthest  corner  of  the  house  ;  doors. 


CHAP.  XLix.]  COACHES.  33 

both  carriage  and  house,  are  open  ; — we  descend,  casting  a  mat- 
ter-of-course eye  at  the  bystanders  ;  and  the  moment  we  touch 
the  pavement,  the  vehicle,  as  if  conscious  of  what  it  has  carried, 
and  relieved  from  the  weight  of  our' importance,  recovers  from  its 
sidelong  inclination  with  a  jerk,  tossing  and  panting,  as  it  were, 
f()r  very  breath,  like  the  proud  heads  of  the  horses. 

All  this,  it  must  be  owned,  is  very  pretty  ;  but  it  is  also  gouty 
and  superfluous.  It  is  too  convenient, — too  exacting, — too  exclu- 
sive. We  must  get  too  much  for  it,  and  lose  too  much  by  it.  Its 
plenty,  as  Ovid  says,  makes  us  poor.  We  neither  have  it  in  the 
republic  of  letters,  nor  would  desire  it  in  any  less  Jacobinical 
state.  Horses,  as  many  as  you  please,  provided  men  have 
enough  to  eat ; — hired  coaches,  a  reasonable  number  : — but 
health  and  good-humor  at  all  events. 

Gigs  and  curricles  are  things  less  objectionable,  because  they 
cannot  be  so  relied  upon  as  substitutes  for  exercise.  Our  taste  in 
them,  we  must  confess,  is  not  genuine.  How  shall  we  own  it  ? 
We  like  to  be  driven,  instead  of  drive  ; — to  read  or  look  about 
us,  instead  of  keeping  watch  on  a  horse's  head.  We  have  no 
relish  even  for  vehicles  of  this  description  that  are  not  safe. 
Danger  is  a  good  thing  for  giving  a  fillip  to  a  man's  ideas  ;  but 
even  danger,  to  us,  must  come  recommended  by  something  use- 
ful. We  have  no  ambition  to  have  Tandebi  written  on  our 
tomb-stone. 

The  prettiest  of  these  vehicles  is  the  curricle,  which  is  also 
the  safest.  There  is  something  worth  looking  at  in  the  pair  of 
horses,  with  that  sparkling  pole  of  steel  laid  across  them.  It  is 
like  a  bar  of  music,  comprising  their  harmonious  course.  But 
to  us,  even  gigs  are  but  a  sort  of  unsuccessful  run  at  gentility. 
The  driver,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  had  better  be  on  the  horse. 
Horseback  is  the  noblest  way  of  being  carried  in  the  world.  It 
is  cheaper  than  any  other  mode  of  riding  ;  it  is  common  to  all 
ranks ;  and  it  is  manly,  graceful,  and  healthy.  The  hand- 
somest mixture  of  danger  with  dignity,  in  the  shape  of  a  car- 
riage, was  the  tall  phaeton  with  its  yellow  wings.  We  renirm- 
ber  looking  up  to  it  with  respect  in  our  childhood,  partly  for  its 
loftiness,  partly  for  its  name,  and  partly  for  the  show  it  makes  in 
the  prints  to  novels  of  that  period.    The  most  gallant  figure  which 


34  THE  INDICATOR.  'chap  xlix 

modern  driving  ever  cut,  was  in  the  person  of  a  late  Duke  of 
Hamilton;  of  whom  we  have  read  or  heard  somewhere,  that  he 
used  to  dash  round  the  streets  of  Rome,  with  his  horses  panting, 
and  his  hounds  barking  ahout  his  phaeton,  to  the  equal  fright  and 
admii-ationof  the  Masters  of  the  World,  who  were  accustomed  to 
witness  nothing  higher  than  a  lumbering  old  coach,  or  a  cardinal 
on  a  mule. 

A  post-chaise  involves  the  idea  of  travelling,  which,  in  the  com- 
pany of  those  we  love,  is  home  in  motion.  The  smooth  running 
along  the  road,  the  fresh  air,  the  variety  of  scene,  the  leafy 
roads,  the  bursting  prospects,  the  clatter  through  a  town,  the 
gaping  gaze  of  a  village,  the  hearty  appetite,  the  leisure  (your 
chaise  waiting  only  upon  your  own  movements),  even  the  little 
contradictions  to  home-comfort,  and  the  expedients  upon  which 
they  set  us,  all  put  the  animal  spirits  at  work,  and  throw  a  novelty 
over  the  road  of  life.  If  anything  could  grind  us  young  again, 
it  would  be  the  wheels  of  a  post-chaise.  The  only  monotonous 
sight  is  the  perpetual  up-and-down  movement  of  the  postilion, 
who,  we  wish  exceedingly,  could  take  a  chair.  His  occasional 
retreat  to  the  bar  which  occupies  the  place  of  a  box,  and  his 
affecting  to  sit  upon  it,  only  reminds  us  of  its  exquisite  want  of 
accommodation.  But  some  have  given  the  bar,  lately,  a  surrep- 
titious squeeze  in  the  middle,  and  flattened  it  a  little  into  some- 
thing obliquely  resembling  an  inconvenient  seat. 

If  we  are  to  believe  the  merry  Columbus  of  Down-Hall, 
calashes,  now  almost  obsolete  for  any  purpose,  used  to  be  hired 
for  travelling  occasions  a  hundred  years  back  :  but  he  preferred 
a  chariot ;  and  neither  was  good.  Yet  see  how  pleasantly  good- 
humor  rides  over  its  inconveniences. 

Then  answer'd  'Squire  Morley,  "  Pray  get  a  calash. 
That  in  summer  may  burn,  and  in  winter  may  splash ; 
I  love  dirt  and  dust ;  and  'tis  always  my  pleasure 
To  take  with  me  much  of  the  soil  that  I  measure." 

But  Matthew  thought  better  :  for  Matthew  thought  right, 
And  hired  a  chariot  so  trim  and  so  tight, 
That  extremes  both  of  winter  and  summer  might  pass ; 
For  one  window  was  canvas,  the  other  was  glass. 

"  Draw  up,"  quoth  friend  Matthew  ;  "  Pull  down,"  quoth  friend  John  ; 
".  We  shall  be  both  hotter  and  colder  anon." 


CHAP.  XLix.]  COACHES.  S-S 

Thus,  talking  and  scolding,  they  forward  did  speed; 
And  Ralpho  paced  by  under  Newman  the  Swede. 

Into  an  old  inn  did  this  equipage  roll, 
At  a  town  they  call  Hodson,  the  sign  of  the  Bull ; 
Near  a  nymph  with  an  urn  that  divides  the  highway. 
And  into  a  puddle  throws  mother  of  tea. 

"  Come  here,  my  sweet  landlady,  pray  how  d'ye  do  ? 
Where  is  Cicely  so  cleanly,  and  Prudence,  and  Sue  ? 
And  where  is  the  widow  that  dwelt  here  below .' 
And  the  hostler  that  sung  about  eight  years  ago  .' 

And  where  is  your  sister,  so  mild  and  so  dear. 
Whose  voice  to  her  maids  like  a  trumpet  was  clear?" 
"  By  my  troth,"  she  replies,  "you  grow  younger  I  think: 
And  pray.  Sir,  what  wine  does  the  gentleman  drink  ? 

"  Why  now  let  me  die,  Sir,  or  live  upon  trust. 

If  I  know  to  which  question  to  answer  you  first: 

Why  things,  since  I  saw  you,  most  strangely  Iwive  varied; 

The  hostler  is  hang'd,  and  the  widow  is  married. 

"  And  Prue  left  a  child  for  the  parish  to  nurse. 
And  Cicely  went  off  with  a  gentleman's  purse  ; 
And  as  to  my  sister,  so  mild  and  so  dear, 
She  has  lain  in  the  church-yard  full  many  a  year." 

"  Well ;  peace  to  her  ashes  !     Whet  signifies  grief? 
She  roasted  red  veal,  and  she  powder'd  lean  beef: 
Full  nicely  she  knew  to  cook  up  a  fine  dish  ; 
For  tough  were  her  pullets,  and  tender  her  fish." — Prior. 

This  quotation  reminds  us  of  a  little  poem  by  the  same  author, 
entitled  the  Secretary,  which,  as  it  is  short,  and  runs  upon  chaise- 
wheels,  and  seems  to  have  slipped  the  notice  it  deserves,  we  will 
do  ourselves  the  pleasure  of  adding.  It  was  written  when  he 
was  Secretary  of  Embassy  at  the  Hague,  where  he  seems  to  have 
edified  the  Dutch  with  his  insisting  upon  enjoying  himself.  The 
astonishment  with  which  the  good  Hollander  and  his  wife  look 
up  to  him  as  he  rides,  and  the  touch  of  yawning  dialect  at  the 
end  are  extremely  pleasant. 

While  with  htbor  asHidnous  due  ploiisure  I  mix, 
A:rl  ill  one  day  atone  lor  tin-  business  of  six, 
'.'4* 


3fi  THE  INDICATOR  [chap,  xlix 

In  a  little  Dutch  chaise  on  a  Saturday  night, 

On  my  left  hand  my  Horace,  a  nymph  on  my  right : 

No  Memoirs  to  compose,  and  no  Post-boy  to  move. 

That  on  Sunday  may  hinder  the  softness  of  love ; 

For  her,  neither  visits,  nor  parties  at  tea. 

Nor  the  long-winded  cant  of  a  dull  Refugee : 

This  night  and  the  next  shall  be  hers,  shall  be  mine, — 

To  good  or  ill-fortune  the  third  we  resign  : 

Thus  scorning  the  world  and  superior  to  fate, 

I  drive  on  my  car  in  processional  state. 

So  with  Phia  through  Athens  Pisistratus  rode ; 
Men  thought  her  Minerva,  and  him  a  new  god. 

But  why  should  I  stories  of  Athens  rehearse. 

Where  people  knew  love,  and  were  partial  to  verse  ? 

Since  none  can  with  justice  my  pleasures  oppose, 

In  Holland  half  drowned  in  interest  and  prose  ? 

By  Greece  and  past  ages  what  need  I  be  tried. 

When  the  Hague  and  the  present  are  both  on  my  side  ' 

And  is  it  enough  for  the  joys  of  the  day. 

To  think  what  Anacreon  or  Sappho  would  say? 

When  good  Vandergoes,  and  his  provident  vrow. 

As  they  gaze  on  my  triumph,  do  freely  allow. 

That,  search  all  the  province,  you'll  fine  no  man  dar  is 

So  blest  as  the  Englishen  Heer  Sccretar"  is. 

If  Prior  had  been  living  now,  he  would  h^ve  found  the  great- 
est  want  of  travelling  accommodation  in  a  country  for  whose 
more  serious  wants  we  have  to  answer,  without  having  her  wit 
to  help  us  to  an  excuse.  There  is  a  story  told  of  an  Irish  post- 
chaise,  the  occupier  of  which,  without  quitting  it,  had  to  take  to 
his  heels.  It  was  going  down  hill  as  fast  as  wind  and  the  im- 
possibility  of  stopping  could  make  it,  when  the  foot  passengers 
observed  a  couple  of  legs  underneath,  emulating,  with  all  their 
might,  the  rapidity  of  the  wheels.  The  bottom  had  come  out ; 
and  the  gentleman  was  obliged  to  run  for  his  life. 

We  must  relate  another  anecdote  of  an  Irish  post-chaise, 
merely  to  show  the  natural  tendencies  of  the  people  to  be  law- 
less in  self-defence.  A  friend  of  ours,*  who  was  travelling 
among  them,  used  to  have  this  proposition  put  to  him  by  the 
postilion  whenever  he  approached  a  turnpike.  "  Plase  your 
jionor.  wiii  I  drive  at  the  pike  ?"     The  pike  hung  loosely  across 

*  Mr.  Shelley. 


CHAP.  XLix.]  COACHES.  37 

the  road.  Luckily,  the  rider  happened  to  be  of  as  lawless  a  turn 
for  justice  as  the  driver,  so  the  answer  was  always  a  cordial 
one: — "Oh  yes — drive  at  the  pike."  The  pike  made  way  ac- 
cordingly ;  and  in  a  minute  or  two,  the  gate  people  were  heard 
and  seen,  screaming  in  vain  after  the  illegal  charioteers. 

Fertur  equis  auriga,  neque  audit  currus. —  Virgil. 

The  driver  's  borne  beyond  their  swearing, 
And  the  post-chaise  is  hard  of  hearing. 

As  to  following  them,  nobody  in  Ireland  thinks  of  moving  too 
much,  legal  or  illegal. 

The  pleasure  to  be  had  in  a  mail-coach  is  not  so  much  at  one's 
command,  as  that  of  a  post-chaise.  There  is  generally  too  little 
room  in  it,  and  too  much  hurry  out  of  it.  The  company  must 
not  lounge  over  their  breakfast,  even  if  they  are  all  agreed.  It 
is  an  understood  thing,  that  they  are  to  be  uncomfortably  punc- 
tual. They  must  get  in  at  seven  o'clock,  though  they  are  all 
going  upon  business  they  do  not  like  or  care  about,  or  will  have 
to  wait  till  nine  before  they  can  do  anything.  Some  persons 
kiiow  how  to  manage  this  haste,  and  breakfast  and  dine  in  the 
cracking  of  a  whip.  They  stick  with  their  fork,  they  joint,  they 
sliver,  they  bolt.  Legs  and  wings  vanish  before  them  like  a  dra- 
gon's before  a  knight-errant.  But  if  one  is  not  a  clergyman  or 
a  regular  jolly  fellow,  one  has  no  chance  this  way.  To  be  diffi- 
dent or  polite,  is  fatal.  It  is  a  merit  eagerly  acknowledged,  and 
as  quickly  set  aside.  At  last  you  begin  upon  a  leg,  and  are 
called  off. 

A  very  troublesome  degree  of  science  is  necessary  for  being 
well  settled  in  the  coach.  We  remember  travelling  in  our  youth, 
upon  the  north  road,  with  an  orthodox  elderly  gentleman  of  ven- 
erable peruke,  who  talked  much  with  a  grave-looking  young 
man  about  universities,  and  won  our  inexperienced  heart  with  a 
notion  that  he  was  deep  in  Horace  and  Virgil.  He  was  deeper  in 
his  wig.  Towards  evening,  as  he  seemed  restless,  we  asked 
with  much  diffidence  whether  a  change,  even  for  the  worse, 
might  not  relieve  him  ;  for  we  were  riding  backwards,  and  thought 
that   all  elderly  people  disliked  that  way.     He  insinuated  the 


3S  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  xlix. 

very  objection ;  so  we  recoiled  from  asking  him  again.  In  a 
minute  or  two,  however,  he  insisted  that  we  were  uneasy  our- 
selves, and  that  he  must  relieve  us  for  our  own  sake.  We  pro- 
tested as  filially  as  possible  against  this  ;  but  at  last,  out  of  mere 
shame  of  disputing  the  point  with  so  benevolent  an  elder,  we 
changed  seats  with  him.  After  an  interval  of  bland  meditation, 
we  found  the  evening  sun  full  in  our  face. — His  new  comfort  set 
him  dozing ;  and  every  now  and  then  he  jerked  his  wig  in  our 
eyes,  till  we  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  take  out  a  nightcap 
and  look  very  ghastly. — The  same  person,  and  his  serious 
young  companion,  tricked  us  out  of  a  good  bed  we  happened  to 
get  at  the  inn. 

The  greatest  peculiarity  attending  a  mail-coach  arises  from  its 
travelling  at  night.  The  gradual  decline  of  talk,  the  incipient 
snore,  the  rustling  and  shifting  of  legs  and  nightcaps,  the  cessa- 
tion of  other  noises  on  the  road — the  sound  of  the  wind  or  rain, 
of  the  moist  circuit  of  the  wheels,  and  of  the  time-beating  tread 
of  the  horses — all  dispose  the  traveller,  who  cannot  sleep,  to  a 
double  sense  of  the  little  that  is  left  him  to  observe.  The  coach 
stops,  the  door  opens,  a  rush  of  cold  air  announces  the  demands 
and  merits  of  the  guard,  who  is  taking  his  leave,  and  is  anxious 
to  remember  us.  The  door  is  clapped  to  again ;  the  sound  of 
everything  outside  becomes  dim  ;  and  voices  are  heard  knocking 
up  the  people  of  the  inn,  and  answered  by  issuing  yawns  and  ex- 
cuses. Wooden  shoes  clog  heavily  about.  The  horses'  mouths 
are  heard,  swilling  up  the  water  out  of  tubs.  All  is  still  again, 
and  some  one  in  the  coach  takes  a  long  breath.  The  driver 
mounts,  and  we  resume  our  way.  It  happens  that  we  can  sleep 
anywhere  except  in  a  mail-coach  ;  so  that  we  hate  to  see  a  pru- 
dent, warm,  old  fellow,  who  has  been  eating  our  fowls  and  inter- 
cepting our  toast,  put  on  his  night-cap  in  order  to  settle  himself 
till  morning.  We  rejoice  in  the  digs  that  his  neighbor's  elbow 
gives  him,  and  hail  the  long-legged  traveller  that  sits  opposite. 
A  passenger  of  our  wakeful  description  must  try  to  content  him- 
self with  listening  to  the  sounds  above  mentioned  ;  or  thinking  of 
his  friends;  or  turning  verses,  as  Sir  Richard  Blackmore  did, 
"to  the  rumbling  of  his  coach's  wheels." 

The  stage-coach  is  a  great  and  unpretending  accommodation. 


CHAP.  XLix.]  COACHES.  39 

It  is  a  cheap  substitute,  notwithstanding  all  its  eighteen-penny 
and  two-and-sixpenny  temptations,  for  keeping  a  carriage  or  a 
horse  ;  and  we  really  think,  in  spite  of  its  gossiping,  is  no  mean 
help  to  village  liberality ;  for  its  passengers  are  so  mixed,  so 
often  varied,  so  little  yet  so  much  together,  so  compelled  to  ac- 
commodate, so  willing  to  pass  a  short  time  pleasantly,  and  so 
liable  to  the  criticism  of  strangers,  that  it  is  hard  if  they  do  not 
get  a  habit  of  speaking,  or  even  thinking  more  kindly  of  one  an- 
other than  if  they  mingled  less  often,  or  under  other  circumstan- 
ces. The  old  and  infirm  are  treated  with  reverence  ;  the  ailing 
sympathized  with  ;  the  healthy  congratulated  ;  the  rich  not  dis- 
tinguished ;  the  poor  well  met ;  the  young,  with  their  faces  con- 
scious of  ride,  patronized,  and  allowed  to  be  extra.  Even  the 
fiery,  nay  the  fat,  learn  to  bear  with  each  other;  and  if  some 
high-thoughted  persons  will  talk  now  and  then  of  their  great  ac- 
quaintances, or  their  preference  of  a  carriage,  there  is  an  instinct 
which  tells  the  rest,  that  they  would  not  make  such  appeals  to 
their  good  opinion,  if  they  valued  it  so  little  as  might  be  supposed. 
Stoppings  and  dust  are  not  pleasant,  but  the  latter  may  be  had 
on  grander  occasions  ;  and  if  any  one  is  so  unlucky  as  never  to 
keep  another  stopping  himself,  he  must  be  content  with  the  supe- 
riority of  his  virtlie. 

The  mail  or  stage-coachman,  upon  the  whole,  is  no  inhuman 
mass  of  great-coat,  grufTness,  civility,  and  old  boots.  The  latter 
is  the  politer,  from  the  smaller  range  of  acquaintance,  and  his 
necessity  for  preserving  chem.  Hi.s  face  is  red,  and  his  voice 
rough,  by  the  same  process  of  drink  and  catarrh.  lie  has  a  sil- 
ver watch  with  a  steel-cham,  and  plenty  of  loose  silver  in  his 
pocket,  mixed  with  halfpence.  He  serves  the  houses  he  goes  by 
for  a  clock.  He  take  a  glass  at  every  alehouse;  for  thirst, 
when  it  is  dry,  and  for  warmth  when  it  is  wet.  He  likes  to  show 
the  judicious  reach  of  his  whip,  by  twigging  a  dog  or  a  goose  on 
the  road,  or  children  that  get  in  the  vvay.  His  tenderness  to 
descending  old  ladies  is  particular.  He  touches  his  hat  to  Mr. 
Smith.  He  gives  "  the  young  woman"  a  ride,  and  lends  her  his 
box-coat  in  the  rain.  His  liberality  in  imparting  his  knowledge 
to  any  one  that  has  the  good  fortune  to  ride  on  the  box  with  him, 
is  a  l)api)y  mixture' of  deference,  conscious  possession,  .'ind  fami- 


40  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  xlix. 

liarity.  His  information  chiefly  lies  in  the  occupancy  of  houses 
on  the  road,  prize-fighters,  Bow-street  runners,  and  accidents. 
He  concludes  that  you  know  Dick  Sams,  or  old  Joey,  and  pro- 
ceeds to  relate  some  of  the  stories  that  relish  his  pot  and  tobacco 
in  the  evening.  If  any  of  the  four-in-hand  gentry  go  by,  he 
shakes  his  head,  and  thinks  they  might  find  something  better  to 
do.  His  contempt  for  them  is  founded  on  modesty.  He  tells  you 
that  his  off-hand  horse  is  as  pretty  a  goer  as  ever  was,  but  that 
Kitty — "Yeah,  now  there,  Kitty,  can't  you  be  still  ?  Kitty's  a 
devil.  Sir,  for  all  you  wouldn't  think  it."  He  knows  that  the 
boys  on  the  road  admire  him,  and  gives  the  horses  an  indifferent 
lash  with  his  whip  as  they  go  by.  If  you  wish  to  know  what 
rain  and  dust  can  do,  you  should  look  at  his  old  hat.  There  is 
an  i^idescribably  placid  and  paternal  look  in  the  position  of  his 
corduroy  knees  and  old  top-boots  on  the  foot-board,  with  their 
pointed  toes  and  never-cleaned  soles.  His  beau-ideal  of  appear- 
ance is  a  frock-coat,  with  mother-o'-pearl  buttons,  a  striped  yel- 
low waistcoat,  and  a  flower  in  his  mouth. 

But  all  our  praises  why  for  Charles  and  Robert  ? 
Rise,  honest  Mews,  and  sing  the  classic  Bobart. 

Is  the  quadrijugal  virtue  of  that  learned  person  still  extant  ? 
That  Olympic  and  Baccalaureated  charioteer  ? — That  best 
educated  and  most  erudite  of  coachmen,  of  whom  Dominie 
Sampson  is  alone  worthy  to  speak  ?  That  singular  punning  and 
driving  commentary  on  the  Sunt  quos  curricula  collegisse  ?  In 
short,  the  worthy  and  agreeable  Mr.  Bobart,  Bachelor  of  Arts, 
who  drove  the  Oxford  stage  some  years  ago,  capped  verses  and 
the  front  of  his  hat  with  equal  dexterity,  and  read  Horace  over 
his  brandy-and-water  of  an  evening  ?  We  had  once  the  plea- 
sure of  being  beaten  by  him  in  that  capital  art,  he  having  brought 
up  against  us  an  unusual  number  of  those  cross-armed  letters,  as 
puzzling  to  verse-cappers  as  iron-cats  unto  cavalry,  ycleped  X's  ; 
which  said  warfare  he  was  pleased  to  call  to  mind  in  after-times, 
unto  divers  of  our  comrades.  The  modest  and  natural  greatness 
with  which  he  used  to  say  "  Yait"  to  his  horses,  and  then  turn 
round  with  his  rosy  gills,  and  an  eye  like  a  fish,  and  give  out 
the  required  verse,  can  never  pass  away  from  us,  as  long  as 
verses  or  horses  run. 


CHAP.  XLix.]  COACHES.  41 

Of  the  hackney-coach  we  cannot  make  as  short  work,  as  many 
persons  like  to  make  of  it  in  reality.  Perhaps  it  is  partly  a 
sense  of  the  contempt  it  undergoes,  which  induces  us  to  endea- 
vor to  make  the  best  of  it.  But  it  has  its  merits,  as  we  shall 
show  presently.  In  the  account  of  its  demerits,  we  have  been 
anticipated   by  a  new,  and  we  are  sorry  to  say  a  very  good, 

poetess,  of  the  name  of  Lucy  V L ,  who  has  favored 

us  with  a  sight  of  a  manuscript  poem,*  in  which  they  are  re- 
lated with  great  nicety  and  sensitiveness. 

Reader.  What,  Sir,  sorry  to  say  that  a  lady  is  a  good 
poetess  ? 

Indicator.  Only  inasmuch.  Madam,  as  the  lady  gives  such 
authority  to  the  antisocial  view  of  this  subject,  and  will  not 
agree  with  us  as  to  the  beatitude  of  the  hackney-coach. — But 
fiold  : — upon  turning  to  the  manuscript  again,  we  find  that  the 
objections  are  put  into  the  mouth. of  a  dandy  courtier.  This 
makes  a  great  difference.  The  hackney  resumes  all  which  it 
had  lost  in  the  good  graces  of  the  fair  authoress.  The  only 
wonder  is,  how  the  courtier  could  talk  so  well.  Here  is  the 
passage. 

Eban,  untempted  by  the  Pastry-cooks 
(Of  Pastry  he  got  store  within  the  Palace), 
With  hasty  steps,  wrapp'd  cloak,  and  solemn  looks. 
Incognito  upon  his  errand  sallies, 
His  smelling-bottle  ready  for  the  alleys; 
He  pass'd  the  Hurdy-gurdies  with  disdain, 
Vowing  he'd  have  them  sent  on  board  the  galleys : 
Just  as  he  made  his  vow,  it  'gan  to  rain, 
Therefore  he  call'd  a  coach,  and  bade  it  drive  amain. 

•'  Pll  pull  the  string,"  said  he,  and  further  said, 
"  Polluted  Jarvey  !  Ah,  thou  fdthy  hack  ! 
Whose  strings  of  life  are  all  dried  up  and  dead. 
Whose  linsey-wolsey  lining  hangs  all  slack. 
Whose  rug  is  straw,  whose  wholeness  is  a  crack; 
And  evermore  thy  steps  go  clatter-clitter  ; 
Whose  glass  once  up  can  never  be  got  back, 
Who  prov'st,  with  jolting  arguments  and  bitter. 
That  'tis  of  vile  no-use  to  travel  in  a  litter. 

*  Piy  Mr.  Keats.  The  manuscript  purports  to  have  been  written  by  • 
Miio  Lucy  Vaughan  Llovd. 


43  THE  INDICATOR.  [chip    xtix 

"  Thou  inconvenience '  thou  hungry  crop 
For  all  corn  !  thou  snail  creeper  to  and  fro, 
Who  while  thou  goest  ever  seem'st  to  stop. 
And  fiddle-faddle  standest  while  you  go ; 
r  the  morning,  freighted  with  a  weight  of  woe. 
Unto  some  Lazar-house  thou  journiest. 
And  in  the  evening  tak'st  a  double  row 
Of  dowdies,  for  some  dance  or  party  drest. 
Besides  the  goods  meanwhile  thou  movest  east  and  west. 

"  By  thy  ungallant  bearing  and  sad  mien. 
An  inch  appears  the  utmost  thou  couldst  budge ; 
Yet  at  the  slightest  nod,  or  hint,  or  sign. 
Round  to  the  curb-stone  patient  dost  thou  trudge, 
School'd  in  a  beckon,  learned  in  a  nudge ; 
A  dull-eyed  Argus  watching  for  a  fare ; 
Quiet  and  plodding,  thou  dost  bear  no  grudge 
To  whisking  Tilburies  or  Phaetons  rare. 
Curricles,  or  Mail-coaches,  swift  beyond  compare." 

Philosophising  thus,  he  pull'd  the  check. 
And  bade  the  coachman  wheel  to  such  a  street; 
Who  turning  much  in  body,  more  his  neck, 
Louted  full  low,  and  hoarsely  did  him  greet. 

The  tact  here  is  so  nice,  of  the  infirmities  which  are  but  too 
likely  to  beset  our  poor  old  friend,  that  we  should  only  spoil  it  co 
say  more.     To  pass  then  to  the  merits. 

One  of  the  greatest  helps  to  a  sense  of  merit  in  other  things, 
is  a  consciousness  of  one's  own  wants.  Do  you  despise  a  hack- 
ney-coach ?  Get  tired  ;  get  old  ;  get  young  again.  Lay  down 
your  carriage,  or  make  it  less  uneasily  too  easy.  Have  to  stand 
up  half  an  hour,  out  of  a  storm,  under  a  gateway.  Be  ill,  and 
wish  to  visit  a  friend  who  is  worse.  Fall  in  love,  and  want  to 
sit  next  your  mistress.     Or  if  all  this  will  not  do,  fall  in  a  cellar. 

Ben  Jonson,  in  a  fit  of  indignation  at  the  niggardliness  of 
James  the  First,  exclaimed,  "  He  despises  me,  I  suppose,  be- 
cause I  live  in  an  alley  : — tell  him  his  soul  lives  in  an  alley." 
We  think  we  see  a  hackney-coach  moved  out  of  its  ordinary 
patience,  and  hear  it  say,  "  You  there,  who  sit  looking  so  scorn- 
fully at  me  out  of  your  carriage,  are  yourself  the  thing  you  take 
me  for.     Your  understanding  is  a   hackney-coach.     It   is  lum 


CTHAP.  xLix.]  COACHES.  43 

bering,  rickety,  and  at  a  stand.  When  it  moves,  it  is  drawn  by 
things  like  itself.  It  is  at  once  the  most  stationary  and  the  most 
servile  of  common-places.  And  when  a  good  thing  is  put  into  it, 
it  does  not  know  it." 

But  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  a  hackney-coach  under  so  irrita- 
ble an  aspect.  Hogarth  has  drawn  a  set  of  hats  or  wigs  with 
countenances  of  their  own.  We  have  noticed  the  same  thing 
in  the  faces  of  houses ;  and  it  sometimes  gets  in  one's  way  in  a 
landscape-painting,  with  the  outlines  of  the  rocks  and  trees.  A 
friend  tells  us,  that  the  hackney-coach  has  its  countenance,  with 
gesticulation  besides :  and  now  he  has  pointed  it  out,  we  can 
easily  fancy  it.  Some  of  them  look  chucked  under  the  chin, 
some  nodding,  some  coming  at  you  sideways.  We  shall  never 
find  it  easy,  however,  to  fancy  the  irritable  aspect  above  men- 
tioned. A  hackney-coach  always  appeared  to  us  the  most 
quiescent  of  moveables.  Its  horses  and  it,  slumbering  on  a 
stand,  are  an  emblem  of  all  the  patience  in  creation,  animate 
and  inanimate.  The  submission  with  which  the  coach  takes 
every  variety  of  the  weather,  dust,  rain,  and  wind,  never  mov- 
ing but  when  some  eddying  blast  makes  its  old  body  shiver,  is 
only  surpassed  by  the  vital  patience  of  the  horses.  Can  any- 
thing better  illustrate  the  poet's  line  about 

— Years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind, 

than  the  still-hung  head,  the  dim  indifferent  eye,  the  dragged  and 
blunt-cornered  mouth,  and  the  gaunt  imbecility  of  body  drop- 
ping its  weight  on  three  tired  legs  in  order  to  give  repose  to  the 
lame  one  ?  When  it  has  blinkers  on,  they  seem  to  be  shutting 
up  its  eyes  for  death,  like  the  windows  of  a  house.  Fatigue  and 
the  habit  of  suffering  have  become  as  natural  to  the  creature  as 
the  bit  to  its  mouth.  Once  in  half  an  hour  it  moves  the  position 
of  its  leg,  or  shakes  its  drooping  ears.  The  whip  makes  it  go, 
more  from  habit  than  from  pain.  Its  coat  has  become  almost 
callous  to  minor  stings.  The  blind  and  staggering  fly  in  autumn 
might  come  to  die  against  its  cheek. 

Of  a  pair  of  hackney-coach  horses,  one  so  much  resembles 
tne  other  that  it  seems  unnecessary  for  them  to  compare  notes. 

25 


44  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xlix. 

They  have  that  within  them,  which  is  beyond  the  comparative. 
They  no  longer  bend  their  heads  towards  each  other,  as  they  go. 
They  stand  together  as  if  unconscious  of  one  another's  company. 
But  they  are  not.  An  old  horse  misses  his  companion,  like  an 
old  man.  The  presence  of  an  associate,  who  has  gone  through 
pain  and  suffering  with  us,  need  not  say  anything.  It  is  talk, 
and  memory,  and  everything.  Something  of  this  it  may  be  to 
our  old  friends  in  harness.  What  are  they  thinking  of,  while 
they  stand  motionless  in  the  rain  ?  Do  they  remember  ?  Do 
they  dream  ?  Do  they  still,  unperplexed  as  their  old  blood  is  by 
too  many  foods,  receive  a  pleasure  from  the  elements;  a  dull 
refreshment  from  the  air  and  sun  ?  Have  they  yet  a  palate  fop 
the  hay  which  they  pull  so  feebly  ?  or  for  the  rarer  grain,  which 
induces  them  to  perform  their  only  voluntary  gesture  of  any 
vivacity,  and  toss  up  the  bags  that  are  fastened  on  their  mouths, 
to  get  at  its  shallow  feast  ? 

If  the  old  horse  were  gifted  with  memory  (and  who  shall  say 
he  is  not,  in  one  thing  as  well  as  another?)  it  might  be  at  once 
the  most  melancholy  and  pleasantest  faculty  he  has ;  for  the 
commonest  hack  has  probably  been  a  hunter  or  racer ;  has  had 
his  days  of  lustre  and  enjoyment ;  has  darted  along  the  course, 
and  scoured  the  pasture ;  has  carried  his  master  proudly,  or  his 
lady  gently ;  has  pranced,  has  galloped,  has  neighed  aloud,  has 
dared,  has  forded,  has  spurned  at  mastery,  has  graced  it  and 
made  it  proud,  has  rejoiced  the  eye,  has  been  crowded  to  as  an 
actor,  has  been  all  instinct  with  life  and  quickness,  has  had  his 
very  fear  admired  as  courage,  and  been  sat  upon  by  valor  as  its 
chosen  seat. 

His  ears  up-prick'd ;  his  braided  hanging  mane 

Upon  his  compass'd  crest  now  stands  on  end ; 

His  nostrils  drink  the  air ;  and  forth  again, 

As  from  a  furnace,  vapors  doth  he  send ; 

His  eye,  which  scornfully  glistens  like  fire, 
Shows  his  hot  courage  and  his  high  desire 

Sometimes  he  trots  as  if  he  tol  I  the  steps 
With  gentle  majesty,  and  modes,    pride ; 
Anon  he  rears  upright,  curvets  and  leaps, 
Ab  who  would  say,  lo !  thus  my  strength  is  tried. 


«;hap.  xiix.]  COACHES.  45 

And  thus  I  do  to  captivate  the  eye 
Of  the  fair  breeder  that  is  standing  by. 

What  recketh  he  his  rider's  angry  stir, 

His  flattering  holla,  or  his  Stand,  I  say? 

What  cares  he  now  for  curb,  or  pricking  spur  ? 

For  rich  caparisons,  or  trappings  gay  ? 

He  sees  his  love,  and  nothing  else  he  sees, 
For  nothing  else  with  his  proud  sight  agrees. 

Look,  when  a  painter  would  surpass  the  life, 

In  limning  out  a  well-proportion'd  steed. 

His  art  with  nature's  workmanship  at  strife, 

As  if  the  dead  the  living  should  exceed ; 
So  did  this  horse  excel  a  common  one. 
In  shape,  in  courage,  color,  pace,  and  bone. 

Round-hoof'd,  short-jointed,  fetlock  shag  and  long, 
Broad  breast,  full  eye,  small  head,  and  nostril  wide  ; 
High  crest,  short  ears,  straight  legs,  and  passing  strong 
Thin  mane,  thick  tail,  broad  buttock,  tender  hide  ; 

Look,  what  a  horse  should  have,  he  did  not  lack, 

Save  a  prcud  rider  on  so  proud  a  back. 

Alas !  his  only  riders  now  are  the  rain  and  a  sordid  harness  ! 
The  least  utterance  of  the  wretchedest  voice  makes  him  stop  and 
become  a  fixture.  His  loves  were  in  existence  at  the  time  the 
old  sign,  fifty  miles  hence,  was  painted.  His  nostrils  drink 
nothing  but  what  they  cannot  help, — tlie  water  out  of  an  old  tub. 
Not  all  the  hounds  in  the  world  could  make  his  ears  attain  any 
eminence.  His  mane  is  scratchy  and  lax.  The  same  great 
poet  who  wrote  the  triumphal  verses  for  him  and  his  loves,  has 
written  their  living  epitaph  : — 

The  poor  jades 
Lob  down  their  heads,  dropping  the  hide  and  hips, 
The  gum  down  roping  from  their  pale  dead  eyes; 
And  in  their  pale  dull  mouths  the  gimmal  bit 
Lies  foul  with  chew'd  grass,  still  and  motionless. 

K.  Henry  Sith,  Act  4. 

There  is  a  song  called  the  High-mettled  Racer,  describing  the 
progress  of  a  favorite  horse's  life,  from  its  time  of  vigor  and 
glory,  down   to  its  furnishing  food  for  the  dogs.     It  is  not   a** 


46  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xlix 

good  as  Shakspeare ;  but  it  will  do,  to  those  who  are  half  as 
kind  as  he.  We  defy  anybody  to  read  that  song  or  be  in  the 
habit  of  singing  it  or  hearing  it  sung,  and  treat  horses  as  they 
are  sometimes  treated.  So  much  good  may  an  author  do,  who 
is  in  earnest,  and  does  not  go  in  a  pedantic  way  to  work.  We 
will  not  say  that  Plutarch's  good-natured  observation  about  taking 
care  of  one's  old  horse  did  more  for  that  class  of  retired  servants 
than  all  the  graver  lessons  of  philosophy.  For  it  is  philosophy 
which  first  sets  people  thinking;  and  then  some  of  them  put  it  in 
a  more  popular  shape.  But  we  will  venture  to  say,  that  Plu- 
tarch's observation  saved  many  a  steed  of  antiquity  a  superflu- 
ous thump  ;  and  in  this  respect,  the  author  of  the  High-mettled 
Racer  (Mr.  Dibdin  we  believe,  no  mean  man  in  his  way)  may 
stand  by  the  side  of  the  old  illustrious  biographer.  Next  to 
ancient  causes,  to  the  inevitable  progress  of  events,  and  to  the 
practical  part  of  Christianity  (which  persons,  the  most  accused 
of  irreligion,  have  preserved  like  a  glorious  infant,  through  ages 
of  blood  and  fire),  the  kindliness  of  modern  philosophy  is  more 
immediately  owing  to  the  grand  national  writers  of  Europe,  in 
whose  schools  we  have  all  been  children  : — to  Voltaire  in  France, 
and  Shakspeare  in  England.  Shakspeare,  in  his  time,  obliquely 
pleaded  the  cause  of  the  Jew,  and  got  him  set  on  a  common  level 
with  humanity.  The  Jew  has  since  been  not  only  allowed  to  be 
human,  but  some  have  undertaken  to  show  him  as  the  "  best 
good  Christian  though  he  knows  it  not."  We  shall  not  dispute 
the  title  with  him,  nor  with  the  other  worshippers  of  Mammon, 
who  force  him  to  the  same  shrine.  We  allow,  as  things  go  in 
that  quarter,  that  the  Jew  is  as  great  a  Christian  as  his  neighbor, 
and  his  neighbor  as  great  a  Jew  as  he.  There  is  neither  love 
nor  money  lost  between  them.  But  at  all  events,  the  Jew  is  a 
man  ;  and  with  Shakspeare's  assistance,  the  time  has  arrived, 
when  we  can  afford  to  acknowledge  the  horse  for  a  fellow-crea- 
ture, and  treat  him  as  one.  We  may  say  for  him,  upon  the  same 
grounds  and  to  the  same  purpose,  as  Shakspeare  said  for  the 
Israelite,  "  Hath  not  a  horse  organs,  dimensions,  senses,  affec- 
tions, passions  ?  hurt  with  the  same  weapons,  subject  to  the  same 
diseases,  healed  by  the  same  means,  warmed  and  cooled  by  the 
same  winter  and  summer,  as  a  Christian  is?"     Oh — but  some 


CHAP.  xLix.]  COACHES.  41 

are  always  at  hand  to  cry  out, — it  would  be  effeminate  to  think 
too  nauch  of  these  things! — Alas!  we  have  no  notion  of  asking 
the  gentlemen  to  think  too  much  of  anything.  If  they  will  think 
at  all,  it  will  be  a  great  gain.  As  to  effeminacy  ^if  we  must  use 
that  ungallant  and  partial  word,  for  want  of  a  better)  it  is  cru- 
elty that  is  effeminate.  It  is  selfishness  that  is  effeminate.  Any- 
thing is  effeminate,  which  would  get  an  excitement,  or  save  a 
proper  and  manly  trouble,  at  the  undue  expense  of  another. — • 
How  does  the  case  stand  then  between  those  who  ill-treat  their 
horses,  and  those  who  spare  them  ? 

To  return  to  the  coach.  Imagine  a  fine  coach  and  pair, 
which  are  standing  at  the  door  of  a  house,  in  all  the  pride  of 
their  strength  and  beauty,  converted  into  what  they  may  both 
become,  a  hackney,  and  its  old  shamblers.  Such  is  one  of  the 
meditations  of  the  philosophic  eighteenpenny  rider.  A  hackney- 
coach  has  often  the  arms  of  nobility  on  it.  As  we  are  going  to 
get  into  it,  we  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  faded  lustre  of  an  earl's  or 
marquis's  coronet,  and  think  of  how  many  light  or  proud  hearts 
have  ascended  those  now  rickety  steps.  In  this  coach  perhaps 
an  elderly  lady  once  rode  to  her  wedding,  a  blooming  and  blush- 
ing girl.  Her  mother  and  sister  were  on  each  side  of  her;  the 
bridegroom  opposite  in  a  blossom-colored  coat.  They  talk  ot 
everything  in  the  world  of  which  they  are  not  thinking.  The 
sister  was  never  prouder  of  her.  The  mother  with  difficulty 
represses  her  own  pride  and  tears.  The  bride,  thinking  he  is 
looking  at  her,  casts  down  her  eyes,  pensive  in  her  joy.  The 
bridegroom  is  at  once  the  proudest,  and  the  humblest,  and  the 
happiest  man  in  the  world — For  our  parts,  we  sit  in  a  corner, 
and  are  in  love  with  the  sister.  We  dream  she  is  going  to  speak 
to  answer  to  some  indifferent  question,  when  a  hoarse  voice 
comes  in  at  the  front  window,  and  says  "  Whereabouts,  Sir !" 

And  grief  has  consecrated  thee,  thou  reverend  dilapidation, 
as  well  as  joy  I  Thou  hast  carried  unwilling,  as  well  as  willing 
hearts ;  hearts,  that  have  thought  the  slowest  of  thy  paces  too 
fast ;  faces  that  have  sat  back  in  a  corner  of  thee,  to  hide  their 
tears  from  the  very  thought  of  being  seen.  In  thee  the  destitute 
have  been  taken  to  the  poor-house,  and  the  wounded  and  sick  to 
the  hospital ;  and  many  an  arm  has  been  round  many  an  insensible 


48  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xlix 

^^  aist.  Into  thee  the  friend  or  the  lover  has  hurried,  in  a  pas- 
sion of  tears,  to  lament  his  loss.  In  thee  he  has  hastened  to 
condole  the  dying  or  the  wretched.  In  thee  the  father,  or 
mother,  or  the  older  kinswoman,  more  patient  in  her  years,  has 
taken  the  little  child  to  the  grave,  the  human  jewel  that  must  be 
parted  with. 

But  joy  appears  in  thee  again,  like  the  look-in  of  the  sun- 
shine. If  the  lover  has  gone  in  thee  unwillingly,  he  has  also 
gone  willingly.  How  many  friends  hast  thou  not  carried  to 
merry-meetings  !  How  many  young  parties  to  the  play  !  How 
many  children,  whose  faces  thou  hast  turned  in  an  instant  from 
the  extremity  of  lachrymose  weariness  to  that  of  staring  delight. 
Thou  hast  contained  as  many  different  passions  in  thee  as  a  hu- 
man heart ;  and  for  the  sake  of  the  human  heart,  old  body,  thou 
art  venerable.  Thou  shalt  be  as  respectable  as  a  reduced  old 
gentleman,  whose  very  slovenliness  is  pathetic.  Thou  shalt  be 
made  gay,  as  he  is  over  a  younger  and  richer  table,  and  thou 
shalt  be  still  more  touching  for  the  gaiety. 

We  wish  the  hackney-coachman  were  as  interesting  a  ma- 
chine as  either  his  coach  or  horses  ;  but  it  must  be  owned,  that  of 
all  the  driving  species  he  is  the  least  agreeable  specimen. 
This  is  partly  to  be  attributed  to  the  life  which  has  most  probably 
put  him  into  his  situation  ;  partly  to  his  want  of  outside  passen- 
gers to  cultivate  his  gentility ;  and  partly  to  the  disputable  na- 
ture of  his  fare,  which  always  leads  him  to  be  lying  and  cheat- 
ing.  The  waterman  of  the  stand,  who  beats  him  in  sordidness 
of  appearance,  is  more  respectable.  He  is  less  of  a  vagabond, 
and  cannot  cheat  you.  Nor  is  the  hackney-coachman  only  dis- 
agreeable in  himself,  but,  like  Falstaff"  reversed,  the  cause  of  dis- 
agreeableness  in  others  ;  for  he  sets  people  upon  disputing  with 
him  in  pettiness  and  ill-temper.  He  induces  the  mercenary  to 
be  violent,  and  the  violent  to  seem  mercenary.  A  man  whom 
you  took  for  a  pleasant  laughing  fellow,  shall  all  of  a  sudden  put 
on  an  irritable  look  of  calculation,  and  vow  that  he  will  be  charged 
with  a  constable  rather  than  pay  the  sixpence.  Even  fair  womnn 
shall  waive  her  all-conquering  softness,  and  sound  a  phri'l 
trumpet  in  reprobation  of  the  extortionate  charioteei',  whorp,  if  .^1  f 
were  a  man,  she  says  she  would  exoose.    Being  a  woman,  i  hen  J;  i 


CHAP.  XLix.]  COACHES.  4» 

her  not  expose  herself.  Oh,  but  it  is  intolerable  to  be  so  impos- 
ed upon  !  Let  the  lady,  then,  get  a  pocket-book,  if  she  must, 
with  the  hackney-coach  fares  in  it ;  or  a  pain  in  the  legs,  rather 
than  the  temper ;  or,  above  all,  let  her  get  wiser,  and  have  an 
understanding  that  can  dispense  with  the  good  opinion  of  the 
hackney-coachman.  Does  she  think  that  her  rosy  lips  were 
made  to  grow  pale  about  two-and- sixpence  ;  or  that  the  expres- 
sion of  them  will  ever  be  like  her  cousin  Fanny's,  if  she  goes 
on  1 

The  stage-coachman  likes  the  boys  on  the  road,  because  he 
knows  they  •  admire  him.  The  hackney-coachman  knows  that 
they  cannot  admire  him,  and  that  they  can  get  up  behind  his 
coach,  which  makes  him  very  savage.  The  cry  of  "  Cut  be- 
hind!"  from  the  malicious  urchins  on  the  pavement,  wounds  at 
once  his  self-love  and  his  interest.  He  would  not  mind  over- 
loading his  master's  horses  for  another  sixpence,  but  to  do  it  for 
nothing  is  what  shocks  his  humanity.  He  hates  the  boys  for  im- 
posing upon  him,  and  the  boys  for  reminding  him  that  he  has 
been  imposed  upon  ;  and  he  would  willingly  twinge  the  cheeks 
of  all  nine.  The  cut  of  his  whip  over  the  coach  is  malignant. 
He  has  a  constant  eye  to  the  road  behind  him.  He  has  also  an 
eye  to  what  may  be  left  in  the  coach.  He  will  undertake  to 
search  the  straw  for  you,  and  miss  the  half-crown  on  purpose. 
He  speculates  on  what  he  may  get  above  his  fare,  according  to 
your  manners  or  company  ;  and  knows  how  much  to  ask  for 
driving  faster  or  slower  than  usual.  He  does  not  like  wet 
weather  so  much  as  people  suppose  ;  for  he  says  it  rots  both  his 
horses  and  harness,  and  he  takes  parties  out  of  town  when  the 
weather  is  fine,  wluch  produces  good  payments  in  a  lump. 
Lovers,  late  supper-eaters,  and  girls  going  home  from  boarding- 
school,  are  his  best  pay.  He  has  a  rascally  air  of  remonstrance 
when  you  dispute  half  the  over-charge,  and  according  to  the 
temper  he  is  in,  begs  you  to  consider  his  bread,  hopes  you  will 
not  make  such  a  fuss  about  a  trifle  ;  or  tells  you,  you  may  take 
his  number  or  sit  in  the  coach  all  night. 

A  great  number  of  ridiculous  adventures  must  have  taken 
place,  in  which  hackney-coaches  were  concerned.  The  story  of 
the  celebrated  harlequin  Lunn,  who  secretly  pitched  liinisilf  out 


50  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  xlix 

of  one  into  a  tavern  window,  and  when  the  coachman  was  about 
to  submit  to  the  loss  of  his  fare,  astonished  him  by  calling  out 
again  from  the  inside,  is  too  well  known  for  repetition.  There 
is  one  of  Swift,  not  perhaps  so  common.  He  was  going,  one 
dark  evening,  to  dine  with  some  great  man,  and  was  accompanied 
by  some  other  clergymen,  to  whom  he  gave  their  cue.  They 
were  all  in  their  canonicals.  When  they  arrive  at  the  house, 
the  coachman  opens  the  door,  and  lets  down  the  steps.  Down 
steps  the  Dean,  very  reverend  in  his  black  robes ;  after  him 
comes  another  personage,  equally  black  and  dignified  ;  then 
another  ;  then  a  fourth.  The  coachman,  who  recollects  taking 
up  no  greater  number,  is  about  to  put  up  the  steps,  when  another 
clergyman  descends.  After  giving  way  to  this  other,  he  pro- 
ceeds with  great  confidence  to  toss  them  up,  when  lo !  another 
comes.  Well,  there  cannot,  bethinks,  be  more  than  six.  He  is 
mistaken.  Down  comes  a  seventh,  then  an  eighth ;  then  a 
ninth  ;  all  with  decent  intervals;  the  coach,  in  the  mean  time,  rock- 
ing as  if  it  were  giving  birth  to  so  many  demons.  The  coachman 
can  conclude  no  less.  He  cries  out,  "  The  devil !  the  devil !" 
and  is  preparing  to  run  away,  when  they  all  burst  into  laughter. 
They  had  gone  round  as  they  descended,  and  got  in  at  the  other 
door. 

We  remember  in  our  boyhood  an  edifying  comment  on  the 
proverb  of  "  all  is  not  gold  that  glistens."  The  spectacle  made 
such  an  impression  upon  us,  that  we  recollect  the  very  spot, 
which  was  at  the  corner  of  a  road  in  the  way  from  Westminster 
to  Kennington,  near  a  stone-mason's.  It  was  a  severe  winter, 
and  we  were  out  on  a  holiday,  thinking,  perhaps,  of  the  gallant 
hardships  to  which  the  ancient  soldiers  accustomed  themselves, 
when  we  suddenly  beheld  a  group  of  hackney-coachmen,  not,  as 
Spenser  says  of  his  witch, 

Busy,  as  seemed,  about  some  wicked  gin, 

but  pledging  each  other  in  what  appeared  to  us  to  be  little 
glasses  of  cold  wafer.  What  temperance,  thought  we  !  What 
extraordinary  and  noble  content !  What  more  than  Roman  sim- 
plicity !  Here  are  a  set  of  poor  Englishmen,  of  the  homeliest 
order,  in  the  very  depth  of  winter,  quenching  their  patient  and 


CHAP.  XLix.]  COACHES.  51 

honorable  thirst  with  modicums  of  cold  water  !  O  true  virtue 
and  courage !  O  sight  worthy  of  the  Timoleons  and  Epami- 
nondases  !  We  know  not  how  long  we  remained  in  this  error ; 
but  the  first  time  we  recognized  the  white  devil  for  what  it  was 
— the  first  time  we  saw  through  the  crystal  purity  of  its  appear- 
ance— was  a  great  blow  to  us.  We  did  not  then  know  what 
the  drinkers  went  through  ;  and  this  reminds  us  that  we  have 
omitted  one  great  redemption  of  the  hackney-coachman's  cha- 
racter— his  being  at  the  mercy  of  all  chances  and  weathers. 
Other  drivers  have  their  settled  hours  and  pay.  He  only  is  at  the 
mercy  of  every  call  and  every  casualty  ;  he  only  is  dragged,  with- 
out notice,  like  the  damned  in  Milton,  into  the  extremities  of  wet 
and  cold,  from  his  alehouse  fire  to  the  freezing  rain ;  he  only 
must  go  anywhere,  at  what  hour  and  to  whatever  place  you 
choose,  his  old  rheumatic  limbs  shaking  under  his  weight  of  rags, 
and  the  snow  and  sleet  beating  into  his  puckered  face,  through 
streets  which  the  wind  scours  like  a  channel. 


52  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  i. 


CHAPTER  L. 

Remarks  upon  Andrea  De  Basso's  Ode  to  a  Dead  Body.* 

We  are  given  to  understand  by  the  Italian  critics,  that  this  poem 
made  a  great  sensation,  and  was  alone  thought  sufficient  to  ren- 
der its  author  of  celebrity.  Its  loathly  heroine  had  been  a 
beauty  of  Ferrara,  proud  and  luxurious.  It  is  written  in  a 
fierce  Catholic  spirit,  and  is  incontestably  very  striking  and  even 
appalling.  Images,  which  would  only  be  disgusting  on  other 
occasions,  affect  us  beyond  disgust,  by  the  strength  of  such  ear- 
nestness and  sincerity.  Andrea  de  Basso  lays  bare  the  mortify- 
ing conclusions  of  the  grave,  and  makes  the  pride  of  beauty 
bow  down  to  them.  The  picture  of  the  once  beautiful,  proud, 
and  unthinking  creature,  caught  and  fixed  down  in  a  wasting 
trap, — the  calling  upon  her  to  come  forth,  and  see  if  any  will 
now  be  won  into  her  arms, — the  taunts  about  the  immortal  balm 
which  she  thought  she  had  in  her  veins, — the  whole,  in  short,  of 
the  terrible  disadvantage  under  which  she  is  made  to  listen  with 
unearthly  ears  to  the  poet's  lecture,  affects  the  imagination  to 
shuddering. 

No  wonder  that  such  an  address  made  a  sensation,  even  upon 
the  gaiety  of  a  southern  city.  One  may  conceive  how  it  fixed 
the  superstitious  more  closely  over  their  meditations  and  skulls  ; 
how  it  sent  the  young,  and  pious,  and  humble,  upon  their  knees ; 
how  it  baulked  the  vivacity  of  the  serenaders ;  brought  teara 
into  the  eyes  of  affectionate  lovers ;  and  shot  doubt  and  confu- 
sion even  into  the  cheeks  of  the  merely  wanton.  Andrea  de 
Basso,  armed  with  the  lightnings  of  his  church,  tore  the  cover- 
ing from  the  grave,  and  smote  up  the  heart  of  Ferrara  as  with 
an  earthquake. 

*  The  reader  will  gather  the  substance  of  it  from  what  follows.  The  ode 
is  to  be  found  in  the  sixth  volume  of  the  Parnaso  Italiano.  A  translation 
has  appeared  in  the  volume  of  the  author's  Poetical  Works,  just  published. 


CHAP.  I-.]  REMARKS  UPON  DE  BASSO'S  ODE.  53 

For  a  lasting  impression,  however,  or  for  such  a  one  as  he 
would  have  desired,  the  author,  with  all  his  powers,  overshot  his 
mark.  Men  build  again  over  earthquakes,  as  nature  resumes 
her  serenity.  The  Ferrarese  returned  to  their  loves  and  guitars, 
when  absolution  had  set  them  to  rights.  It  was  impossible  that 
Andrea  de  Basso  should  have  succeeded  in  fixing  such  impres- 
sions upon  the  mind  ;  and  it  would  have  been  an  error  in  logic, 
as  well  as  everything  else,  if  he  had.  He  committed  himself, 
both  as  a  theologian  and  a  philosopher.  There  is  an  allusion, 
towards  the  end  of  his  ode,  to  the  Catholic  notion,  that  the  death 
of  a  saintly  person  is  accompanied  by  what  they  call  "  the  odor 
of  sanctity  ;" — a  literalised  metaphor,  which  they  must  often 
have  been  perplexed  to  maintain.  But  the  assents  of  supersti- 
tion, and  the  instinct  of  common  sense,  keep  a  certain  separa- 
tion at  bottom  ;  and  the  poet  drew  such  a  picture  of  mortality, 
as  would  unavoidably  be  applied  to  every  one,  vicious  or  vir- 
tuous. It  was  too  close  and  mortifying,  even  for  the  egotism  of 
religious  fancy  to  overcome.  All  would  have  an  interest  in  con- 
tradicting it  somehow  or  other. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  they  could  not  well  contradict  or  bear 
to  think  of  it,  his  mark  was  overshot  there.  It  has  been  observed, 
in  times  of  shipwrecks,  plagues,  and  other  circumstances  of  a 
common  despair,  that  upon  the  usual  principles  of  extremes 
meeting,  mankind  turn  upon  Death  their  pursuer,  and  defy  him 
to  the  teeth.  The  superstitious  in  vain  exhort  them  to  think, 
and  threaten  them  with  the  consequences  of  refusal.  The} 
have  threats  enough.  If  they  could  think  to  any  purpose  of  re- 
freshment, they  would.  But  time  presses  ;  the  exhortation  is 
too  like  the  evil  it  would  remedy  ;  and  they  endeavor  to  crowd 
into  a  few  moments  all  the  enjoyments  to  which  nature  has  given 
them  a  tendency,  and  to  which,  with  a  natural  piety  beyond 
that  of  their  threateners,  they  feel  that  they  have  both  a  ten- 
dency and  a  right.  If  many  such  odes  as  Basso's  could  have 
been  written, — if  the  court  of  Ferrara  had  turned  superstitious 
and  patronised  such  productions,  the  next  age  would  not  merely 
have  been  lively  ;  it  would  have  been  debauched. 

Again,  the  reasoning  of  such  appeals  to  the  general  sense  is 
absurd  in  itself     They  call  upon   us  to  join  life  and  death  to 


54  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  i. 

gether ;  to  think  of  what  we  are  not,  with  the  feelings  of  what 
we  are  ;  to  be  different  and  yet  the  same.  Hypochondria  may 
do  this ;  a  melancholy  imagination,  or  a  strong  imagination  of 
any  sort,  may  do  it  for  a  time  ;  but  it  will  never  be  done  gene- 
rally, and  nature  never  intended  it  should.  A  decaying  dead 
body  is  no  more  the  real  human  being,  than  a  watch,  stopped 
and  mutilated,  is  a  time-piece,  or  cold  water  warm,  or  a  numb 
finger  in  the  same  state  of  sensation  as  the  one  next  it,  or  any 
one  modification  of  being  the  same  as  another.  We  may  pitch 
ourselves  by  imagination  into  this  state  of  being  ;  but  it  is  our- 
selves, modified  by  our  present  totalities  and  sensation,  that  we 
do  pitch  there.  What  we  may  be  otherwise,  is  another  thing. 
The  melancholy  imagination  may  give  it  melancholy  fancies ; 
the  livelier  one,  if  it  pleases,  may  suppose  it  a  state  of  exqui- 
site dissolution.  The  philosopher  sees  in  it  nothing  but  a  contra- 
diction to  the  life  by  which  we  judge  of  it,  and  a  dissolution  of 
the  compounds  which  held  us  together.  There  is  one  thing 
alone  in  such  gloomy  beggings  of  a  question,  which  throws 
them  back  upon  the  prescriptions  of  wisdom,  and  prevents  them 
from  becoming  general.  They  are  always  accompanied  by  ill 
health.  We  do  not  mean  a  breaking  up  of  the  frame,  or  that 
very  road  to  death,  which  may  be  a  kindly  and  cheerful  one, 
illuminated  by  the  sunset,  as  youth  was  by  the  dawn  :  but  a  pol- 
luted  and  artificial  state  of  blood,  or  an  insufficient  vigor  of  ex- 
istence,— that  state,  in  short,  which  is  an  exception  to  the  general 
condition  of  humanity,  and  acts  like  the  proof  of  a  rule  to  the 
intentions  of  Nature.  For  these  are  so  kind,  that  no  mistake 
in  the  world,  not  even  vice  itself,  is  so  sure  to  confuse  a  m^n's 
sensations  and  render  them  melancholy,  as  ill-health.  Nature 
seems  to  say  to  us,  "  Be,  above  all  things,  as  natural  as  you  can 
be, — as  much  as  possible  in  the  best  fashion  of  the  mould  in 
which  I  cast  you, — and  you  shall  be  happy."  Nor  is  this  un- 
lucky for  virtue,  but  most  lucky :  for  it  takes  away  its  pride,  and 
leaves  it  its  cheerfulness.  Real  vice  will  soon  be  found  to  be  real 
unhealthiness :  nor  could  society  have  a  better  guide  to  the  re- 
formation of  its  moral  systems,  than  by  making  them  as  com- 
patible as  possible  with  every  healthy  impulse.  But  why,  it  may 
be  asked,  are  we  n  ot  all  healthy  ?     It  is  impossible  to  say :  but 


CHAP.  L.]  REMARKS  UPON  DE  BASSO'S  ODE.  55 

this  is  certain,  that  the  oftener  a  man  asks  himself  that  question, 
the  more  intimations  he  has  that  he  is  to  try  and  get  out  of  the  ten- 
dency to  ask  them.  We  may  live  elsewhere  :  we  may  be  com- 
pounded  over  again,  and  receive  a  new  consciousness  here  ; — a 
guess  which,  if  it  seems  dreary  at  first,  might  lead  us  to  make  a 
heaven  of  the  earth  we  live  in,  even  for  our  own  sakes  hereafter. 
But  at  all  events,  put,  as  Jupiter  says  in  the  fable,  your  shoulder  to 
the  wheel  ;  and  put  it  as  cheerfully  as  you  can.  The  way  that 
Andrea  de  Basso  should  have  set  about  reforming  the  Ferrarese 
beauties,  would  have  been  to  show  them,  that  their  enjoyments 
were  hurtful  in  proportion  as  they  were  extravagant,  and  less 
than  they  might  be,  in  proportion  as  they  were  in  bad  taste. 
But  to  ask  the  healthy  to  be  hypochondriacal :  the  beautiful  to 
think  gratuitously  of  ugliness  ;  and  the  giddy,  much  less  the 
wise,  to  desire  to  be  angels  in  heaven,  by  representing  God  as  a 
cruel  and  eternal  punisher, — is  what  never  could,  and  never 
ought  to  have,  a  lasting  effect  on  humanity. 

It  has  been  well  observed,  that  life  is  a  series  of  present  sensa- 
tions. It  might  be  added,  that  the  consciousness  of  the  present 
moment  is  one  of  the  strongest  of  those  sensations.  Still  this 
consciousness  is  a  series,  not  a  line  ;  a  variety  with  intervals,  not 
a  continuity  and  a  haunting.  If  it  were,  it  would  be  unhealthy  ; 
if  it  were  unhealthy,  it  would  be  melancholy ;  if  it  were  melan- 
choly, the  evident  system  upon  which  nature  acts  would  be  dif- 
ferent. Thus  it  is  impossible  that  men  should  be  finally  led  by 
gloomy,  and  not  by  pleasant  doctrines. 

When  the  Ferrarese  ladies  read  the  poem  of  Andrea  de  Basso, 
it  occupied  the  series  of  their  sensations  for  a  little  while,  more  or 
less  according  to  tlieir  thoughtfulness,  and  more  or  less,  even 
then,  according  to  their  unhealthiness.  The  power  of  voluntary 
thought  is  proportioned  to  the  state  of  the  health.  In  a  little  time, 
the  Ferrarese,  being  like  other  multitudes,  and  even  gayer,  would 
turn  to  their  usual  reflections  and  enjoyments,  as  they  accord- 
ingly did.  About  that  period  Ariosto  was  born.  lie  rose  to  vin- 
dicate the  charity  and  good-will  of  nature ;  and  put  forth  more 
real  wisdom,  truth,  and  even  piety,  in  his  willing  enjoyment  of  the 
creation,  than  all  the  monks  in  Ferrara  could  have  mustered  to- 
gether for  centuries. 

26 


56  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  » 

To  conclude,  Andrea  de  Basso  mistook  his  own  self,  as  well  as 
the  means  of  instructing  his  callous  beauty.     There  are   few 
things  more  oppressive  to  the  heart,  than  the  want  of  feeling  in 
those  whose  appearance  leads  others  to  feeli  ntensely — the  sight 
of  beauty  sacrificing  its  own  real  comfort  as  well  as  ours,  by  a 
heartless  and  indiscriminate  love  of  admiration  from  young  and 
old,  from  the  gross  and  the  refined,  the  wise  and  the   foolish,  the 
good-natured   and  the  ill-natured,  the   happy-making    and   the 
vicious.     If  Andrea  de  Basso's  heroine  was  one  of  this  stamp, 
we  can  imagine  her  to  have  irritated  his  best  feelings,  as  well  as 
his  more  equirocal.     We  hope  she  was  not  merely  a  giddy  crea- 
ture, who  had   not  quite  patience   enough   with  her  confessor. 
Alfred  the  Great,  when  a  youth,  was  accustomed  to  turn  a  deaf 
ear  to  the  didactics  of  his  holy  kinsman  St.  Neot ;  for  which, 
says  the  worthy  Bishop  Asser,  who  was  nevertheless  a  great  ad- 
mirer of  the  king,  and  wrote  his  life,  all  those  troubles  were  after- 
wards brought  upon   him  and  his  kingdom.     Be  this  as  it  may, 
and  supposing  the  Ferrarese  beauty  to  have  been  an  unfeeling 
one,  the  poet  was  not  aware,  while  triumphing  over  her  folly,  and 
endeavoring  to  enjoy  the  thought  of  her  torments,  that  he  was 
confounding  the   sentiment   of  the  thing  with  its   reverse,  and 
doing  his  best  to  make  himself  a  worse  and  more  hard-hearted 
person  than  she.     His  efforts  to  induce  us  to  think  lightly  of  the 
most  beautiful  things  in  the  external  world,  by  showing  us  that 
they  will  not  always  be  what  they  are — that  a  smooth  and  grace- 
ful limb  will  not  for  ever  be  the  same  smooth  and  graceful  limb, 
nor  an  eye  an   eye,  nor  an  apple  an  apple,  are  not   as   wise  as 
they  are  poetical.     To  have  said  that  the  limb,  unless   admired 
with  sentiment  as  well  as  with  ordinary   admiration,  is  a  com- 
mon-place thing  to   what  it   might  be,  and  that   there   is  more 
beauty  in  it  than  the  lady  supposed,  would  have  been  good.     To 
make  nothing  of  it,  because  she  did  not  make   as   much   as  she 
could,  is  unwise.     But  above  all,  to  consign  her  to  eternal   pun- 
ishment in  the  next   world,  because  she  gave  rise  to  a  series 
of  fugitive  evils  in  this — granting  even  that  she,  and  not  her 
wrong  education,  was  the  cause  of  them — is  one  of  those   idle 
wori^ings  of  himself   and  others,  which    only  perplex   further 


citAP.  L.]  REMARKS  UPON  DE  BASSO'S   ODE.  57 

what  they  cannot  explain,  and  have  at  last  fairly  sickened  the 
world  into  a  sense  of  their  unhealthiness. 

What  then  remains  of  the  poetical  denouncements  of  Andrea 
de  Basso  ?  Why  the  only  thing  which  ought  to  remain,  and 
which  when  left  to  itself  retains  nothing  but  its  pleasure — their 
poetry.  When  Dante  and  Milton  shall  cease  to  have  any  effect 
as  religious  dogmatisers,  they  will  still  be  the  mythological  poets 
of  one  system  of  belief,  as  Homer  is  of  another.  So  immortal 
is  pleasure,  and  so  surely  does  it  escape  out  of  the  throng  of  its 
contradictions. 


58  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  il 


CHAPTER  LI. 

Thoughts  and  Guesses  on  Human  Natur«. 
CONFUSION    OF    MODES    OF    BEING. 

People  undertake  to  settle  what  ideas  they  shall  have  under 
such  and  such  circumstances  of  being,  when  it  is  nothing  but 
their  present  state  of  being  that  enables  them  to  have  those 
ideas. 

VARIETY  OF  THE  COLORS  OF  PERCEPTION. 

There  is  reason  to  suppose  that  our  perceptions  and  sensa- 
tions are  more  different  than  we  imagine,  even  upon  the  most 
ordinary  things,  such  as  visible  objects  in  general,  and  the  sense 
of  existence.  We  have  enough  in  common,  for  common  inter- 
course ;  but  the  details  are  dissimilar,  as  we  may  perceive  in 
the  variety  of  palates.  All  people  are  agreed  upon  sweet  and 
sour ;  but  one  man  prefers  sour  to  sweet,  and  another  this  and 
that  variety  of  sour  and  sweet.  "  What  then  is  the  use  of  at- 
tempting to  make  them  agree  ?  "  Why,  we  may  try  to  make 
them  agree  upon  certain  general  modes  of  thinking  and  means 
of  pleasure  : — we  may  color  their  existence  in  the  gross,  though 
we  must  leave  the  particular  shades  to  come  out  by  themselves. 
We  may  enrich  their  stock  of  ideas,  though  we  cannot  control 
the  items  of  the  expenditure. 


"  But  what  if  we  cannot  do  even  this  ?  "  The  question 
is  answered  by  experience.  Whole  nations  and  ages  have 
already  been  altered   in  their  modes  of  thinking.     Even  if  it 


oHAP.   LI.]  THOUGHTS  ON  HUMAN  NATURE.  5!J 

were  otherwise,  the  endeavor  is  itself  one  of  the  varieties ;  one 
of  the  modes  of  opinion  and  means  of  pleasure.  Besides,  can- 
not is  the  motto  neither  of  knowledge  nor  humility.  There  is 
more  of  pride,  and  ignorance,  and  despair,  in  it.  than  of  the 
modesty  of  wisdom.  It  would  settle  not  only  the  past,  but  the 
future  ;  and  it  would  settle  the  future,  merely  because  the  past 
has  not  been  influenced  by  those  that  use  it. 

Who  are  these  men  that  measure  futurity  by  the  shadow  of 
their  own  littleness  ?  It  is  as  if  the  loose  stones  lying  about  a 
foundation  were  to  say,  "  You  can  build  no  higher  than  our 
heads." 

SUPERSTITION    AND    DOCTRINE. 

Superstition  attempts  to  settle  everything  by  assertion  ;  which 
never  did  do,  and  never  will.  And  like  all  assertors,  even  well- 
inclined  ones,  it  shows  its  feebleness  in  anger  and  threatening. 
It  commands  us  to  take  its  problems  for  granted,  on  pain  of 
being  tied  up  to  a  triangle.  Then  come  its  advocates,  and 
assert  that  this  mode  of  treatment  is  proper  and  logical :  which 
is  making  bad  worse.  The  worst  of  all  is,  that  this  is  the  way 
in  which  the  finest  doctrines  in  the  world  are  obstructed.  They 
are  like  an  excellent  child,  making  the  Grand  Tour  with  a  fool- 
ish overbearing  tutor.  The  tutor  runs  a  chance  of  spoiling  the 
child,  and  makes  their  presence  disagreeable  wherever  they  go, 
except  to  their  tradesmen.  Let  us  hope  the  child  has  done  with 
his  tutor. 

SECOND  THOUGHT  ON  THE  VARIETY  OF  THE  COLORS  OF  PERCEPTION. 

We  may  gather  from  what  we  read  of  diseased  imaginations, 
how  much  our  perceptions  depend  upon  the  modification  of  our 
being.  We  see  how  personal  and  inexperienced  we  are  when 
we  determine  that  such  and  such  ideas  must  take  place  under 
other  circumstances,  and  such  and  such  truths  be  always  indis- 
putable.  Pleasure  must  always  be  pleasure,  and  pain  be  pain, 
because  these  are  only  names  for  certain  results.  But  the  re- 
Bults   thcinselYcs  will    be   pleaaurablc   or   painful,   actn'i'ding  to 

2(j* 


oO  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  li. 

what  they  act  upon.  A  man  in  health  becomes  sickly  ;  he  has 
a  fever,  is  light-headed,  is  hypochondriacal.  His  ideas  are  de 
ranged,  or  re-arrange  themselves  ;  and  a  set  of  new  perceptions, 
and  colorings  of  his  existence,  take  place,  as  in  a  kaleidoscope 
when  we  shake  it.  The  conclusion  is,  that  every  alteration  of 
our  physical  particles,  or  of  whatever  else  we  are  compounded 
with,  produces  a  different  set  of  perceptions  and  sensations. 
What  we  call  health  of  body  and  mind  is  the  fittest  state  of  our 
composition  upon  earth :  but  the  state  of  perception  which  is 
sickly  to  our  state  of  existence,  may  be  healthy  to  another. 


Of  all  impositions  on  the  public,  the  greatest  seems  to  be 
death.  It  resembles  the  threatening  faces  on  each  side  the 
Treasury.  Or  rather,  it  is  a  necessary  bar  to  our  tendency  to 
move  forward.  Nature  sends  us  out  of  her  hand  with  such  an 
impetus  towards  increase  of  enjoyment,  that  something  is  obliged 
to  be  set  at  the  end  of  the  avenue  we  are  in,  to  moderate  our 
bias,  and  make  us  enjoy  the  present  being.  Death  serves  to 
make  us  think,  not  of  itself,  but  of  what  is  about  us. 

CHILDHOOD    AND    KNOWLEDGE. 

When  children  are  in  good  health  and  temper,  they  have  a 
sense  of  existence  which  seems  too  exquisite  to  last.  It  is  made 
up  of  clearness  of  blood,  freshness  of  perception,  and  trusting- 
ness  of  heart.  We  remember  the  time,  when  the  green  rails 
along  a  set  of  superb  gardens  used  to  fill  us  with  a  series  of 
holiday  and  rural  sensations  perfectly  intoxicating.  According 
to  the  state  of  our  health,  we  have  sunny  glimpses  of  this  feel- 
ing still ;  to  say  nothing  of  many  other  pleasures,  which  have 
paid  us  for  many  pains.  The  best  time  to  catch  them  is  early 
in  the  morning,  at  sunrise,  out  in  the  country.  And  we  will 
here  add,  that  life  never  perhaps  feels  such  a  return  of  fresh 
and  young  feeling  upon  it,  as  in  early  rising  on  a  fine  morning, 
whether  in  country  or  town.  The  healthiness  of  it,  the  quiet, 
the  consciousness  of  having  done  a  sort  of  young  action  (not  to 


CHAP.  LI.]  THOUGHTS  ON  HUMAN  NATURE.  61 

add  a  wise  one),  and  the  sense  of  power  it  gives  you  over  the 
coming  day,  produce  a  mixture  of  buoyancy  and  self-possession, 
which  a  sick  man  must  not  despair  of,  because  he  does  not 
feel  it  the  first  morning.  But  even  this  reform  should  be  adopted 
by  degrees.  The  best  way  to  recommend  it  is  to  begin  with 
allowing  fair  play  to  the  other  side  of  the  question.  (See  the 
article  upon  Getting  up  on  Cold  Mornings.)  To  return  to  our 
main  point.  After  childhood  comes  a  knowledge  of  evil,  or  a 
sophisticate  and  unhealthy  mode  of  life ;  or  one  produces  the 
other,  and  both  are  embittered.  Everything  tells  us  to  get  back 
to  a  state  of  childhood — pain,  pleasure,  imagination,  rea.son, 
passion,  natural  affection  or  piety,  the  better  part  of  religion. 
If  knowledge  is  supposed  to  be  incompatible  with  it,  knowledge 
would  sacrifice  herself,  if  necessary,  to  the  same  cause,  for  she 
also  tells  us  to  do  so.  But  as  a  little  knowledge  first  leads  us 
away  from  happiness,  so  a  greater  knowledge  may  be  destined 
to  bring  us  back  into  a  finer  region  of  it. 

KNOWLEDGE    AND    UNHAPPINESS. 

It  is  not  knowledge  that  makes  us  unhappy  as  we  grow  up, 
but  the  knowledge  of  unhappiness.  Yet,  as  unhappiness  existed 
when  we  knew  it  not,  it  becomes  us  all  to  be  acquainted  with  it, 
that  we  may  all  have  the  chance  of  bettering  the  condition  of 
our  species.  Who  would  say  to  himself,  "  I  would  be  happy, 
though  all  my  fellow-creatures  were  miserable  !  "  Knowledge 
must  heal  what  it  wounds,  and  extend  the  happiness  which  it 
has  suspended.  It  must  do  by  our  comfort  as  a  friend  may  do 
by  one's  books;  enrich  it  with  its  comments.  One  man  grows 
up  and  gets  unhealthy  without  knowledge  ;  another,  with  it. 
The  former  suffers  and  does  not  know  why.  He  is  unhappy, 
and  he  sees  unhappiness,  but  he  can  do  nothing  for  himself  or 
others.  The  latter  suffers  and  discovers  why.  He  suffers  even 
more  because  he  knows  more  ;  but  he  learns  also  how  to  diminish 
suffering  in  others.  He  learns,  too,  to  apply  his  knowledge  to  his 
own  case ;  and  he  sees,  that  as  he  himself  suff'ers  from  the 
world's  want  of  knowledge,  so  vhe  progress  of  knowledge  would 
take  away  the  world's  sufferings   and   his  own.     The  efforts  to 


fi2  THE  INDICATOR.  |chap.  li. 

this  end  worry  him  perhaps,  and  make  him  sickly ;  upon  which, 
thinking  is  pronounced  to  be  injurious  to  health.  And  it  may  be 
so  under  these  circumstances.  What  then,  if  it  betters  the 
health  of  the  many  ?  But  thinking  may  also  teach  him  how  to 
be  healthier.  A  game  of  cricket  on  a  green  may  do  for  him 
what  no  want  of  thought  would  have  done :  while  on  the  other 
hand,  if  he  shows  a  want  of  thought  upon  these  points,  the  infer- 
ence is  easy  ;  he  is  not  so  thinking  a  man  as  you  took  him  for. 
Addison  should  have  got  on  horseback,  instead  of  walking  up 
and  down  a  room  in  his  house,  with  a  bottle  of  wine  at  each  end 
of  it.  Shakspeare  divided  his  time  between  town  and  country, 
and  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life,  built,  and  planted,  and  petted 
his  daughter  Susanna.  Solomon  in  his  old  age  played  the  Ana- 
creon  ;  and  with  Milton's  leave,  "  his  wisest  heart "  was  not  so 
much  out  in  this  matter,  as  when  his  royal  impatience  induced 
him  to  say  that  everything  was  vanity. 

CHILDHOOD — OLD    AGE  — OTJR    DESTINY. 

There  appears  to  be  something  in  the  composition  of  humanity 
like  what  we  have  observed  in  that  of  music.  The  musician's 
first  thought  is  apt  to  be  his  finest;  he  must  carry  it  on,  and 
make  a  second  part  to  his  air  ;  and  he  becomes  inferior.  Nature 
in  like  manner  (if  we  may  speak  it  without  profaneness)  appears  to 
succeed  best  in  making  childhood  and  youth.  The  symphony 
is  a  little  perturbed  ;  but  in  what  a  sprightly  manner  the  air  sets 
oflf!  What  purity  !  What  grace  !  What  touching  simplicity  ! 
Then  comes  sin,  or  the  notion  of  it,  and  "  breaks  the  fair  music." 
Well  did  a  wiser  than  the  "  wisest  heart "  bid  us  try  and  con- 
tinue children.  But  there  are  foolish  as  well  as  wise  children, 
and  it  is  a  special  mark  of  the  former,  whether  little  or  grown, 
to  affect  manhood,  and  to  confound  it  with  cunning  and  violence. 
Do  men  die,  in  order  that  life  and  its  freshness  may  be  as  often 
and  as  multitudinously  renewed  as  possible  ?  Or  do  children 
grow  old,  that  our  consciousness  may  attain  to  some  better  mode 
of  being  through  a  rough  path  ?  Superstition  answers  only  to 
perplex  us,  and  make  us  partial.  Nature  answers  nothing.  But 
nature's  calm  and  resolute  silence  tells  us  at  once  to  hope  for 


CHAP.  Li.j  THOUGHTS  ON  HUMAN  NATURE  o3 

the  future,  and  to  do  our  best  to  enjoy  the  present.  What  if  it 
is  the  aim  of  her  workmanship  to  produce  self-moving  instru- 
ments, that  may  carry  forward  their  own  good?  "A  modest 
thought,"  you  will  say.  Yet  it  is  more  allied  to  some  doctrines 
celebrated  for  their  humility,  than  you  may  suppose.  Vanity, 
in  speculations  earnest  and  affectionate,  is  a  charge  to  be  made 
only  by  vanity.     What  has  it  to  do  with  them  ? 

ENDEAVOR. 

Either  this  world  (to  use  the  style  of  Marcus  Antoninus)  is 
meant  to  be  what  it  is,  or  it  is  not.  If  it  is  not,  then  our  en- 
deavors to  render  it  otherwise  are  right: — if  it  is,  then  we  must 
be  as  we  are,  and  seek  excitement  through  the  same  means,  and 
our  endeavors  are  still  right.  In  either  case,  endeavor  is  good 
and  useful ;  but  in  one  of  them,  the  want  of  it  must  be  a  mis- 
take. 

GOOD    AKD    EVIL. 

Nature  is  justified  (to  speak  humanly)  in  the  ordinary  state 
of  the  world,  granting  it  is  never  to  be  made  better,  because 
the  sum  of  good,  upon  the  whole,  is  greater  than  that  of  evil. 
For  in  the  list  of  goods  we  are  not  only  to  rank  all  the  more 
obvious  pleasures  which  we  agree  to  call  such,  but  much  that 
is  ranked  under  the  head  of  mere  excitement,  taking  hope  for 
the  ground  of  it,  and  action  for  the  means.  But  we  have  no 
right,  on  that  account,  to  abstain  from  endeavoring  to  better  the 
condition  of  our  species,  were  it  only  for  the  sake  of  individual 
suffering.  Nature,  who  is  infinite,  has  a  right  to  act  in  the 
gross.  Nothing  but  an  infinite  suffering  should  make  her  stop  ; 
and  that  should  make  her  stop,  were  the  individual  who  in- 
finitely suffered  the  only  inhabitant  of  his  hell.  Heaven  and 
earth  should  petition  to  be  abolished,  rather  than  that  one  such 
monstrosity  should  exist :  it  is  the  absurdest  as  well  as  most  im- 
pious  of  all  the  dreams  of  fear.  To  suppose  that  a  Divine  Be- 
ing can  sympathize  with  our  happiness,  is  to  suppose  that  he 
can  sympathize  with  our  misery  ;   bnt  to  suppose  that  he  can 


64  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  u 

sympathize  with  misery,  and  yet  suffer  infinite  misery  to  exist, 
rather  than  put  an  end  to  misery  and  happiness  together,  is  to 
contradict  his  sympathy  with  happiness,  and  to  make  him  prefer 
a  positive  evil  to  a  negative  one,  the  existence  of  torment  to  tho 
cessation  of  feeling.  As  nature,  therefore,  if  considered  at  alt, 
must  be  considered  as  regulated  in  her  operations,  through  in- 
finite, we  must  looli  to  fugitive  suffering,  as  nature  must  guard 
against  permanent ;  she  carves  out  our  work  for  us  in  the  gross  : 
we  must  attend  to  it  in  the  detail.  To  leave  everything  to  her, 
would  be  to  settle  into  another  mode  of  existence,  or  stagnate 
into  death.  If  it  be  said  that  she  will  take  care  of  us  at  all 
events,  we  answer,  first,  that  she  does  not  do  so  in  the  ordinary 
details  of  life,  neither  earns  our  food  for  us,  nor  washes  our 
bodies,  nor  writes  our  books  ;  secondly,  that  of  things  useful- 
looking  and  uncertain,  she  incites  us  to  know  the  profit  and  pro- 
bability ;  and  thirdly  (as  we  have  hinted  in  a  previous  observa- 
tion), that  not  knowing  how  far  we  may  carry  on  the  impulse 
of  improvement,  towards  which  she  has  given  us  a  bias,  it  be- 
comes us  on  every  ground,  both  of  ignorance  and  wisdom,  to 
try. 

DEGRADING    IDEAS    OF    DEITY. 

The  superstitious,  in  their  contradictory  representations  of 
God,  call  him  virtuous  and  benevolent  out  of  the  same  passion 
of  fear  as  induces  them  to  make  him  such  a  tyrant.  They 
think  they  shall  be  damned  also,  if  they  do  not  believe  him  the 
tyrant  he  is  described  : — they  think  they  shall  be  damned  also, 
if  they  do  not  gratuitously  ascribe  to  him  the  virtues  incompati- 
ble with  damnation.  Being  so  unworthy  of  praise,  they  think 
he  will  be  particularly  angry  at  not  being  praised.  They  shud- 
der to  think  themselves  better ;  and  hasten  to  make  amends  for 
It,  by  declaring  themselves  as  worthless  as  he  is  worthy. 

GREAT    DISTINCTION    TO    BE    MADE    IN    BIGOTS. 

There  are  two  sorts  of  religious  bigots,  the  unhealthy  and  the 
unfeeling.     The  fear  of  the  former  is  mixed  with  humanity,  and 


CHAP.  LI.]  THOUGHTS  ON  HUMAN  NATURE.  65 

they  never  succeed  in  thinking  themselves  favorites  of  God,  but 
'neir  sense  of  security  is  embittered,  by  aversions  which  they 
dare  not  own  to  themselves,  and  terror  for  the  fate  of  those  who 
are  not  so  lucky.  The  unfeeling  bigot  is  a  mere  unimagina- 
tive animal,  whose  thoughts  are  confined  to  the  snugness  of  his 
kennel,  and  who  would  have  a  good  in  the  next  world  as  well  as 
in  this.  He  secures  a  place  in  heaven  as  he  does  in  the  Man. 
Chester  coach.  Never  mind  who  suffers  outside,  woman  or 
child.  We  once  found  ourselves  by  accident  on  board  a  Mar- 
gate hoy,  which  professed  to  "  sail  by  Divine  Providence." 
Walking  about  the  deck  at  night  to  get  rid  of  the  chillness 
which  would  occasionally  visit  our  devotions  to  the  starry  hea- 
vens and  the  sparkling  sea,  our  foot  came  in  contact  with  some- 
thing  white,  which  was  lying  gathered  up  in  a  heap.  Upon 
stooping  down,  we  found  it  to  be  a  woman.  The  methodists  had 
secured  all  the  beds  below,  and  were  not  to  be  disturbed. 

SXTPERSTITION    THE    FLATTERER    OF    REASON. 

We  are  far  from  thinking  that  reason  can  settle  everything. 
We  no  more  think  so,  than  that  our  eyesight  can  see  into  all 
existence.  But  it  does  not  follow,  that  we  are  to  take  for 
granted  the  extremest  contradictions  of  reason.  Why  should 
we  ?  We  do  not  even  think  well  enough  of  reason  to  do  so. 
For  here  is  one  of  the  secrets  of  superstition.  It  is  so  angry  at 
reason  for  not  being  able  to  settle  everything,  that  it  runs  in 
dispair  into  the  arms  of  irrationality. 

GOOD    IN    THINGS    EVIL. 

"  God  Almighty  ! 
There  is  a  soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil, 
Would  men  observingly  distil  it  out !" 

So  vvith  equa'  wisdom  and  good-nature,  does  Shakspeare  make 
one  of  his  characters  exclaim.  Suffering  gives  strength  to 
sympathy.  Hate  of  the  particular  may  have  a  foundation  in 
love  for  the  general.  The  lowest  and  most  wilful  vice  may 
plunge   dconer,  out  of  a  regret  of  virtue.     Even  in  envy  may 


C6  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  li 

be  discerned  something  of  an  instinct  of  justice,  something  of 
a  wish  to  see  fair  play,  and  things  on  a  level. — "But  there  is 
still  a  residuum  of  evil,  of  which  we  should  all  wish  to  get  rid." 
— Well  then,  let  us  try. 

ARTIFICE    OF    EXAGGERATED    COMPLAINT. 

Disappointment  likes  to  make  out  bad  to  be  worse,  in  order 
to  relieve  the  gnawing  of  its  actual  wound.  It  would  confuse 
the  limits  of  its  pain  ;  and  by  extending  it  too  far,  try  to  make 
itself  uncertain  how  far  it  reached. 

CUSTOM,    ITS    SELF-RECONCILEMENTS    AND    CONTRADICTIONS. 

Custom  is  seen  more  in  what  we  bear  than  what  we  enjoy. 
And  yet  a  pain  long  borne  so  fits  itself  to  our  shoulders,  that 
we  do  not  miss  even  that  without  disquietude.  The  novelty  of 
the  sensation  startles  us.  Montaigne,  like  our  modern  beaux, 
was  uneasy  when  he  did  not  feel  himself  braced  up  in  his  cloth- 
ing. Prisoners  have  been  known  to  wish  to  go  back  to  their 
prisons  :  invalids  have  missed  the  accompaniment  of  a  gun-shot 
wound ;  and  the  world  is  angry  with  reformers  and  innovators, 
not  because  it  is  in  the  right,  but  because  it  is  accustomed  to  be 
in  the  wrong.  This  is  a  good  thing,  and  shows  the  indestructi- 
ble  tendency  of  nature  to  forego  its  troubles.  But  then  re- 
formers and  innovators  must  arise  upon  that  very  ground.  Tc 
quarrel  with  them  upon  a  principle  of  avowed  spleen,  is  candid, 
and  has  a  self-knowledge  in  it.  But  to  resent  them  as  imperti- 
nent or  effeminate,  is  at  bottom  to  quarrel  with  the  principle  of 
one's  own  patience,  and  to  set  the  fear  of  moving  above  the 
courage  of  it. 

ADVICE. 

It  has  been  well  observed,  that  advice  is  not  disliked  because 
it  is  advice  ;  but  because  so  few  people  know  how  to  give  it. 
Yet  there  are  people  vain  enough  to  hate  it:  in  proportion  to  its 
very  agreeableness. 


CHAP  LI.]  THOUGHTS  ON  HUMAN  NATURE.  «7 

HAPPINESS,    HOW    WE    FOREGO    IT. 

By  the  same  reason  for  which  we  call  this  earth  a  vale  of 
tears  we  might  call  heaven,  when  we  got  there,  a  hill  of  sighs  ; 
for  upon  the  principle  of  an  endless  progression  of  beatitude, 
we  might  find  a  still  better  heaven  promised  us,  and  this  would 
be  enough  to  make  us  dissatisfied  with  the  one  in  possession. 
Suppose  that  we  have  previously  existed  in  the  planet  Mars  ; 
that  there  are  no  fields  or  trees  there,  and  that  we  nevertheless 
could  imagine  them,  and  were  in  the  habit  of  anticipating  their 
delight  in  the  next  world.  Suppose  that  there  was  no  such 
thing  as  a  stream  of  air, — as  a  wind  fanning  one's  face  for  a 
summer's  day.  What  a  romantic  thing  to  fancy !  What  a 
beatitude  to  anticipate !  Suppose,  above  all,  that  there  was  no 
such  thing  as  love.  Words  would  be  lost  in  anticipating  that. 
"  Eye  hath  not  seen,  nor  ear  heard,"  &c.  Yet  when  we  got  to 
this  lieaven  of  green  fields  and  fresh  airs,  we  might  take  little 
notice  of  either  for  want  of  something  more ;  and  even  love  we 
might  contrive  to  spoil  pretty  odiously. 

27 


THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  lh 


CHAPTER  LII. 

The  Hamadryad.* 

An  Assyrian,  of  the  name  of  Rhsecus,  observing  a  fine  old  oak- 
tree  ready  to  fall  with  age,  ordered  it  to  be  propped  up.  He 
was  continuing  his  way  through  the  solitary  skirts  of  the  place, 
when  a  female  of  more  than  human  beauty  appeared  before 
him,  with  gladness  in  her  eyes.  "  Rhaecus,"  said  she,  "  I  am 
the  Nymph  of  the  tree  which  you  have  saved  from  perishing. 
My  life  is,  of  course,  implicated  in  its  own.  But  for  you,  my 
existence  must  have  terminated  ;  but  for  you,  the  sap  would 
have  ceased  to  flow  through  its  boughs,  and  the  god-like  essence 
I  received  from  it  to  animate  these  veins.  No  more  should  1 
have  felt  the  wind  in  my  hair,  the  sun  upon  my  cheeks,  or 
the  balmy  rain  upon  my  body.  Now  I  shall  feel  them  many 
years  to  come.  Many  years  also  will  your  fellow-creatures  sit 
under  my  shade,  and  hear  the  benignity  of  my  whispers,  and 
repay  me  with  their  honey  and  their  thanks.  Ask  what  I  can 
give  you,  Rhaecus,  and  you  shall  have  it." 

The  young  man,  who  had  done  a  graceful  action  but  had 
not  thought  of  its  containing  so  many  kindly  things,  received  the 
praises  of  the  Nymph  with  a  due  mixture  of  surprise  and  hom. 
age.  He  did  not  want  courage,  however ;  and  emboldened  by 
her  tone  and  manner,  and  still  more  by  a  beauty  which  had 
all  the  buxom  bloom  of  humanity  in  it,  with  a  preternatural 
gracefulness  besides,  he  requested  that  she  would  receive  him  as 
a  lover.  There  was  a  look  in  her  face  at  this  request  answer- 
ing to  modesty,  but  something  still  finer ;  having  no  guilt,  she 
seemed  to  have  none  of  the  common  infirmities  either  of  shame 
or  impudence.     In  fine,  she  consented  to  reward  Rhaecus  as  he 

*  See  the  Scholiaat  upon  ApoUonius  Rhodius;  or  tlie  Mythology  of  Na- 
talia Comes 


CHAP  Lii  ]  THE  HAMADRYAD.  68 

wished  ;  and  said  she  would  send  a  bee  to  inform  him  of  the 
hour  of  their  meeting. 

Who  now  was  so  delighted  as  Rhaecus  !  for  he  was  a  great 
admirer  of  the  fair  sex,  and  not  a  little  proud  of  their  admiring 
hin)  in  return  ;  and  no  human  beauty,  whom  he  had  known, 
could  compare  with  the  Hamadryad.  It  must  be  owned,  at  the 
same  time,  that  his  taste  for  love  and  beauty  was  not  of  quite  so 
exalted  a  description  as  he  took  it  for.  If  he  was  fond  of  the 
fair  sex,  he  was  pretty  nearly  as  fond  of  dice,  and  feasting,  and 
any  other  excitement  which  came  in  his  way  ;  and,  unluckily, 
he  was  throwing  the  dice  that  very  noon  when  the  bee  came  to 
summon  him. 

Rhaecus  was  at  an  interesting  part  of  the  game — so  much  so, 
that  he  did  not  at  first  recognize  the  object  of  the  bee's  hum- 
ming. "  Confound  this  bee !"  said  he,  "  it  seems  plaguily  fond 
of  me."  He  brushed  it  away  two  or  three  times,  but  the  busy 
messenger  returned,  and  only  hummed  the  louder.  At  last  he 
bethought  him  of  the  Nymph  ;  but  his  impatience  seemed  to 
increase  with  his  pride,  and  he  gave  the  poor  insect  such  a 
brush,  as  sent  him  away  crippled  in  both  his  thighs. 

The  bee  returned  to  his  mistress  as  well  as  he  could,  and 
shortly  after  was  followed  by  his  joyous  assailant,  who  came 
triumphing  in  the  success  of  his  dice  and  his  gallantry.  "  I  am 
hero,"  said  the  Hamadryad.  Rhaecus  looked  among  the  trees, 
but  could  see  nobody.  "  I  am  here,"  said  a  grave  sweet  voice, 
"  right  before  you."  Rhaecus  saw  nothing.  "  Alas  !"  said  she, 
"  Rhaecus,  you  cannot  see  me,  nor  will  you  see  me  more.  I 
had  thought  better  of  your  discernment  and  your  kindness  ;  but 
you  were  but  gifted  with  a  momentary  sight  of  me.  You  will 
see  nothing  in  future  but  common  things,  and  those  sadly.  You 
are  struck  blind  to  everything  else.  The  hand  that  could  strike 
my  bee  with  a  lingering  death,  and  prefer  the  embracing  of  the 
dice-box  to  that  of  affectionate  beauty,  is  not  worthy  of  love  and 
the  green  trees." 

The  wind  sighed  off  to  a  distance,  and  Rhaecus  felt  that  he 
was  alone. 


70  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  liii. 


CHAPTER  LIII. 

The  Nurture  of  Triptolemus. 

Triptolemus  was  the  son  of  Celeus,  king  of.  Attica,  by  his  wife 
Polymnia.  During  his  youth  he  felt  such  an  ardor  for  know- 
ledge, and  such  a  desire  to  impart  it  to  his  fellow-creatures, 
that,  having  but  a  slight  frame  for  so  vigorous  a  soul,  and 
meeting  with  a  great  deal  of  jealousy  and  envy  from  those 
who  were  interested  in  being  thought  wiser,  he  fell  into  a  wast- 
ing illness.  His  flesh  left  his  bones  ;  his  thin  hands  trembled 
when  he  touched  the  harp  ;  his  fine  warm  eyes  looked  staringly 
out  of  their  sockets,  like  stars  that  had  slipped  out  of  their  places 
in  heaven. 

At  this  period,  an  extraordinary  and  awful  sensation  struck, 
one  night,  through  the  streets  of  Eleusis.  It  was  felt  both  by 
those  who  slept  and  those  who  were  awake.  The  former 
dreamed  great  dreams;  the  latter,  especially  the  revellers  and 
hypocrites  who  were  pursuing  their  profane  orgies,  looked  at 
one  another,  and  thought  of  Triptolemus.  As  to  Triptolemus 
himself,  he  shook  in  his  bed  with  exceeding  agitation  ;  but  it 
was  with  a  pleasure  that  overcame  him  like  pain.  He  knew 
not  how  to  account  for  it;  but  he  begged  his  father  to  go  out 
and  meet  whatever  was  coming.  He  felt  that  some  extraor- 
dinary good  was  approaching,  both  for  himself  and  his  fellow, 
creatures  ;  but  revenge  was  never  farther  from  his  thoughts. 
What  was  he  to  revenge  ?  Mistake  and  unhappiness  ?  He  was 
too  wise,  too  kind,  and  too  suffering.  "  Alas  !"  thought  he,  "  an 
unknown  joy  shakes  me  like  a  palpable  sorrow ;  and  their 
minds  are  but  as  weak  as  my  body.  They  cannot  bear  a  touch 
they  are  not  accustomed  to." 

The  king,  his  wife,  and  his  daughters  went  out,  trembling, 
though  not  so  much  as  Triptolemus,  nor  with  the  same  feeling. 


CTI^p.  Lin.]         THE  NURTURE    ,)F  TRIPTOLEMUS  71 

'J'here  was  a  great  light  in  the  air,  which  moved  gradually 
towards  them,  and  seemed  to  be  struck  upwards  from  some- 
thing in  the  street.  Presently,  two  gigantic  torches  appeared 
round  the  corner ;  and  underneath  them,  sitting  in  a  car,  and 
looking  earnestly  about,  was  a  mighty  female,  of  more  than 
ordinary  size  and  beauty.  Her  large  black  eyes,  with  her 
gigantic  brows  bent  over  them,  and  surmounted  with  a  white 
forehead  and  a  profusion  of  hair,  looked  here  and  there  with  an 
intentness  and  a  depth  of  yearning  indescribable.  "  Chaire, 
Demeire  !"  exclaimed  the  king  in  a  loud  voice  : — "  Hail,  crea- 
tive mother !"  He  raised  the  cry  common  at  festivals,  when 
they  imagined  a  deity  manifesting  itself;  and  the  priests  poured 
out  of  their  dwellings,  with  vestment  and  with  incense,  which 
they  held  tremblingly  aloft,  turning  down  their  pale  faces  from 
the  gaze  of  the  passing  goddess. 

It  was  Ceres,  looking  for  her  lost  daughter  Proserpina.  The 
eye  of  the  deity  seemed  to  have  a  greater  severity  in  its  ear- 
nestness, as  she  passed  by  the  priests  ;  but  at  sight  of  a  chorus 
of  youths  and  damsels,  who  dared  to  lift  up  their  eyes  as  well 
as  voices,  she  gave  such  a  beautiful  smile  as  none  but  gods  in 
sorrow  can  give  ;  and  emboldened  with  this,  the  king  and  his 
family  prayed  her  to  accept  their  hospitality. 

She  did  so.  A  temple  in  the  king's  palace  was  her  chamber, 
where  she  lay  on  the  golden  bed  usually  assigned  to  her  image. 
The  most  precious  fruits  and  perfumes  burned  constantly  at  the 
door  ;  and  at  first,  no  hymns  were  sung,  but  those  of  homage 
and  condolence.  But  these  the  goddess  commanded  to  be 
changed  for  happier  songs.  Word  was  also  given  to  the  city, 
that  it  should  remit  its  fears  and  its  cares,  and  show  all  the  hap- 
piness of  which  it  was  capable  before  she  arrived.  "  For,"  said 
she,  "  the  voice  of  happiness  arising  from  earth  is  a  god's  best 
incense.  A  deity  lives  better  on  the  pleasure  of  what  it  has 
created,  than  in  a  return  of  a  part  of  its  gifts." 

Such  were  the  maxims  which  Ceres  delighted  to  utter  durir.g 
her  abode  at  Eleusis,  and  which  afterwards  formed  the  essence 
of  her  renowned  mysteries  at  that  place.  But  the  bigots,  who 
adopted  and  injured  them,  heard  them  with  dismay  ;  for  they 
were   similar  to  what    young   Triptolemus  had   uttered   in  the 

27* 


72  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  lui. 

the  aspirations  of  his  virtue.  The  rest  of  the  inhabitants  gave 
themselves  up  to  the  joy,  from  which  the  divinity  would  only 
extract  consolation.  They  danced,  they  wedded,  they  loved  ; 
they  praised  her  in  hymns  as  cheerful  as  her  natural  temper ; 
they  did  great  and  glorious  things  for  one  another :  never  was 
Attica  so  full  of  delight  and  heroism:  the  young  men  sought 
every  den  and  fearful  place  in  the  territory,  to  see  if  Proserpina 
was  there  ;  and  the  damsels  vied  who  should  give  them  most 
kisses  for  their  reward.  "  Oh  Dearest  and  Divinest  Mother  !" 
sang  the  Eleusinians,  as  they  surrounded  the  king's  palace  at 
night  with  their  evening  hymn, — "  Oh  greatest  and  best  god- 
dess !  who  not  above  sorrow  thyself,  art  yet  above  all  wish  to 
inflict  it,  we  know  by  this  thou  art  indeed  divine.  Would  that 
we  might  restore  thee  thy  beloved  daughter,  thy  daughter 
Proserpina,  the  dark,  the  beautiful,  the  mother-loving;  whom 
some  god  less  generous  than  thyself  would  keep  for  his  own 
jealous  doating.  Would  we  might  see  her  in  thine  arms  !  We 
would  willingly  die  for  the  sight ;  would  willingly  die  with  the 
only  pleasure  which  thou  hast  left  wanting  to  us." 

The  goddess  would  weep  at  these  twilight  hymns,  consoling 
herself  for  the  absence  of  Proserpina  by  thinking  how  many 
daughters  she  had  made  happy.  Triptolemus  shed  weaker 
tears  at  them  in  his  secret  bed,  but  they  were  happier  ones  than 
before.  "  I  shall  die,"  thought  he,  "  merely  from  the  bitter- 
sweet  joy  of  seeing  the  growth  of  a  happiness  which  I  must 
never  taste ;  but  the  days  I  longed  for  have  arrived.  Would 
that  my  father  would  only  speak  to  the  goddess,  that  my  passage 
to  the  grave  might  be  a  little  easier !'' 

The  father  doubted  whether  he  should  speak  to  the  goddess. 
He  loved  his  son  warmly,  though  he  did  not  well  understand 
him ;  and  the  mother,  in  spite  of  the  deity's  kindness,  was 
afraid,  lest  in  telling  her  of  a  child  whom  they  were  about  to 
lose,  they  should  remind  her  loo  forcibly  of  her  own.  Yet  the 
mother,  in  an  agony  of  alarm  one  day,  at  a  fainting-fit  of  her 
son's,  was  the  first  to  resolve  to  speak  to  her,  and  the  king  and 
she  went  and  prostrated  themselves  at  her  feet.  "  What  is  this, 
kind  hosts  ?"  said  Ceres,  "  have  ye,  too,  lost  a  daughter  ?" 
"  No  J  but  we  shall  lose  a  son,"  answered  the  parents,  "  but  for 


CHAP,  uil]        the  nurture  OF  TRIPTOLEMUS.  73 

the  help  of  heaven."  "  A  son !"  replied  Ceres,  "  why  did  you 
not  tell  mo  your  son  was  living  ?  I  had  heard  of  him,  and 
wished  to  see  him  ;  but  finding  him  not  among  ye,  1  fancied 
that  he  was  no  more,  and  I  would  not  trouble  you  with  such  a 
memory.  But  why  did  you  fear  mine,  when  I  could  do  good  ? 
Did  your  son  fear  it  ?" — "  No,  indeed,"  said  the  parents  ;  "  he 
urged  us  to  tell  thee." — "  He  is  the  being  I  took  him  for,"  re- 
turned the  goddess :  "  lead  me  to  v/here  he  lies." 

They  came  to  his  chamber,  and  found  him  kneeling  upon  the 
bed,  his  face  and  joined  hands  bending  towards  the  door.  He 
had  felt  the  approach  of  the  deity;  and  though  he  shook  in  every 
limb,  it  was  a  transport  beyond  fear  that  made  him  rise — it  was 
love  and  gratitude.  The  goddess  saw  it,  and  bent  on  him  a  look 
that  put  composure  into  his  feelings.  "  What  wantest  thou," 
said  she,  "  struggler  with  great  thoughts  ?"  "  Nothing,"  an- 
swered Triptolemus,  "  if  thou  thinkest  good,  but  a  shorter  and 
easier  death." 

"  What !  before  thy  task  is  done  ?"  "  Fate,"  he  replied, 
"  seems  to  tell  me  that  I  am  not  fitted  for  my  task,  and  it  is 
more  than  done,  since  thou  art  here.  I  pray  thee,  let  me  die  ; 
that  I  may  not  see  every  one  around  me  weeping  in  the  midst 
of  joy,  and  yet  not  have  strength  enough  left  in  my  hands  to 
wipe  away  their  tears."  "  Not  so,  my  child,"  said  the  goddess, 
and  her  grand  harmonious  voice  had  tears  in  it  as  she  spoke  ; 
"  not  so,  Triptolemus  ;  for  my  task  is  thy  task  ;  and  gods  work 
with  instruments.  Thou  hast  not  gone  through  all  thy  trials 
yet ;  but  thou  shalt  have  a  better  covering  to  bear  them,  yet  still 
by  degrees.     Gradual  sorrow,  gradual  joy." 

So  saying,  she  put  her  hand  to  his  heart  and  pressed  it,  and 
the  agitation  of  his  spirit  was  further  allayed,  though  he  re- 
turned to  his  reclining  posture  for  weakness.  From  that  time 
the  bed  of  Triptolemus  was  removed  into  the  temple,  and  Ceres 
became  his  second  mother;  but  nobody  knew  how  she  nourished 
him.  It  was  said  that  she  summoned  milk  into  her  bosom,  and 
nourished  him  at  her  immortal  heart  ;  but  he  did  not  grow 
taller  in  stature,  as  men  expected.  His  health  was  restored, 
his  joints  were  knit  again,  and  stronger  than  ever ;  6ut  he  con- 
tinued the  same  small,  though  graceful  youth,  only  thu  sicklier 


74  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  hi. 

particles  which  he  had  received  from  his  parents  withdrew  their 
influence. 

At  last,  however,  his  very  figure  began  to  grow  and  expand. 
Up  to  this  moment  he  had  only  been  an  interesting  mortal,  in 
whom  the  stoutest  and  best-made  of  his  father's  subjects  recogniz- 
ed something  mentally  superior.  Now,  he  began  to  look  in  per- 
son, as  well  as  in  mind,  a  demigod.  The  curiosity  of  the  parents 
was  roused  at  this  appearance  ;  and  it  was  heightened  by  the 
report  of  a  domestic,  who  said,  that  in  passing  the  door  of  the 
temple  one  night,  she  heard  a  sound  as  of  a  mighty  fire.  But 
their  parental  feelings  were  also  excited  by  the  behavior  of 
Triptolemus,  who  while  he  seemed  to  rise  with  double  cheerful- 
ness in  the  morning,  always  began  to  look  melancholy  towards 
night.  For  some  hours  before  he  retired  to  rest  he  grew  silent,  and 
looked  more  and  more  thoughtful,  though  nothing  could  be  kinder 
In  his  manners  to  everybody,  and  the  hour  no  sooner  approached 
for  his  retiring,  then  he  went  instantly  and  even  cheerfully. 

His  parents  resolved  to  watch  ;  they  knew  not  what  they  were 
about,  or  they  would  have  abstained,  for  Ceres  was  every  night 
at  her  enchantments,  to  render  their  son  immortal  in  essence  as 
well  as  in  fame,  and  interruption  would  be  fatal.  At  midnight 
they  listened  at  the  temple  door. 

The  first  thing  they  heard  was  the  roaring  noise  of  fire,  as  had 
been  reported.  It  was  deep  and  fierce.  They  were  about  to 
retire  for  fear;  but  curiosity  and  parental  feeling  prevailed. 
They  listened  again  ;  but  for  some  time  heard  nothing  but  the 
fire.  At  last  a  voice  resembling  their  child's,  gave  a  deep 
groan.  "  It  was  a  strong  trial,  my  son,"  said  another  voice,  in 
which  they  recognized  the  melancholy  sweetness  of  the  goddess. 
"  The  grandeur  and  exceeding  novelty  of  these  visions,"  said  the 
fainter  voice,  "  press  upon  me,  as  though  they  would  bear  down 
my  brain."  "  But  they  do  not,"  returned  the  deity,  "  and  they 
have  not.  I  will  summon  the  next."  "  Nay,  not  yet,"  rejoined 
the  mortal  ;  "  yet  be  it  as  thou  wilt.  I  know  what  thou  tallest 
me,  great  and  kind  mother." — "  Thou  dost  know,"  said  the  god- 
dess, "  and  thou  knowest  in  the  very  heart  of  thy  knowledge, 
which  is  in  the  sympathy  of  it  and  the  love.  Thou  seest  that 
difference  is  not  difference,  and  yet  it  is  so ;  that  the  same  is  not 


CHAP.  Liii.]        THE  NURTURE  OF  TRIPTOLEMUS.  79 

the  same,  and  yet  must  be  ;  that  what  is,  is  but  what  we  see.  and 
as  we  see  it ;  and  yet  that  all  which  we  see,  is.  Thou  shalt 
prove  it  finally  ;  and  this  is  the  last  trial  but  one.  Vision,  come 
forth."  A  noise  here  took  place,  as  of  the  entrance  of  some- 
thing exceedingly  hurried  and  agonised,  but  which  remained 
fixed  with  equal  stillness.  A  brief  pause  took  place,  at  the  end 
of  which  the  listeners  heard  their  son  speak,  but  in  a  voice  of  ex- 
ceeding toil  and  loathing,  and  as  if  he  had  turned  away  his  head  : 
— "  It  is,"  said  he,  gasping  for  breath,  "  utmost  deformity,"— 
"  Only  to  thine  habitual  eyes,  and  when  alone,"  said  the  goddess 
in  a  soothing  manner  ;  "  look  again."  "  O  my  heart !"  said  the 
same  voice,  gasping,  as  if  with  transport,  "  they  are  perfect 
beauty  and  humanity."  "  There  are  only  two  of  the  same," 
said  the  goddess,  "  each  going  out  of  itself.  Deformity  to  the 
eyes  of  habit  is  nothing  but  analysis ;  in  essence  it  is  nothing 
but  one-ness.  if  such  a  thing  there  be.  The  touch  and  the  re- 
sult is  everything.  See  what  a  goddess  knows,  and  see  never- 
theless what  she  feels  ;  in  this  only  greater  than  mortals,  that 
she  lives  for  ever  to  do  good.  Now  comes  the  last  and  greatest 
trial  ;  now  shalt  thou  see  the  real  worlds  as  they  are  ;  now 
shalt  thou  behold  them  lapsing  in  reflected  splendor  about  the 
blackness  of  space  ;  now  shalt  thou  dip  thine  ears  into  the  mighty 
ocean  of  their  harmonies,  and  be  able  to  be  touched  with  the 
concentrated  love  of  the  universe.  Roar  heavier,  fire  ;  endure, 
endure,  thou  immortalising  frame."  "  Yes,  now,  now,"  said  the 
other  voice,  in  a  superhuman  tone,  which  the  listeners  knew  not 
whether  to  think  joy  or  anguish  ;  but  they  were  seized  with  such 
alarm  and  curiosity,  that  they  opened  a  place  from  which  the 
priestess  used  to  speak  at  the  lintel,  and  looked  in.  The  mother 
beheld  her  son,  stretched  with  a  face  of  bright  agony,  upon 
burning  coals.  She  shrieked,  and  pitch  darkness  fell  upon  the 
temple.  "  A  little  while,"  said  the  mournful  voice  of  the  god- 
dess, "  and  heaven  had  had  another  life.  O  Fear  !  what  dost 
thou  not  do!  O!  my  all  but  divine  boy!"  continued  she, 
"now  plunged  again  into  physical  darkness,  thou  canst  not 
do  good  so  long  as  thou  wouldst  have  done  ;  but  thou  shalt  have 
a  life  almost  as  long  as  the  commonest  sons  of  men,  and  a  thou- 
Band  times  more  useful  and  glorious.     Thou  must  change  away 


76  THE  INDICATOR  [chap,  liii 

the  rest  of  thy  particles,  as  others  do  ;  and  in  the  process  of  time 
they  may  meet  again  under  some  nature  worthy  of  thee,  and 
give  thee  another  chance  for  yearning  into  immortality ;  but  at 
present  the  pain  is  done,  the  pleasure  must  not  arrive." 

The  fright  they  had  undergone  slew  the  weak  parents.  Trip, 
tolemus,  strong  in  body,  cheerful  to  all  in  show,  cheerful  to  him. 
self  in  many  things,  retained,  nevertheless,  a  certain  melancholy 
from  his  recollections,  but  it  did  not  hinder  him  from  sowing  joy 
wherever  he  went.  It  incited  him  but  the  more  to  do  so.  The 
success  of  others  stood  him  instead  of  his  own.  Ceres  gave  him 
the  first  seeds  of  the  corn  that  makes  bread,  and  sent  him  in  her 
chariot  round  the  world,  to  teach  men  how  to  use  it.  "  I  am  not 
immortal  myself,"  said  he,  "  but  let  the  good  I  do  be  so,  and  I 
shall  yet  die  happy." 


CHAP.  Mv.]  ON  COMMENDATORY  VERSES.  TJ 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

On  Commendatory  Verseai 

If  the  faculties  of  the  writer  of  these  papers  are  anything  at  all, 
they  are  social ;  and  we  have  always  been  most  pleased  when 
we  have  received  the  approbation  of  those  friends,  whom  we  are 
most  in  the  habit  of  thinking  of  when  we  write.  There  are  mul- 
titudes of  readers  whose  society  we  can  fancy  ourselves  enjoying, 
though  we  have  never  seen  them ;  but  we  are  more  particularly  apt 
to  imagine  ourselves  in  such  and  such  company,  according  to  the 
nature  of  our  articles.  We  are  accustomed  to  say  to  ourselves, 
if  we  happen  to  strike  off  anything  that  pleases  us, — K.  will  like 
that : — There's  something  for  M.  or  R.  : — C.  will  snap  his  finger 
and  slap  his  knee  at  this : — Here's  a  crow  to  pick  for  H. — Here 
N.  will  shake  his  shoulders  : — There  B.,  his  head  : — Here  S.  will 
shriek  with  satisfaction: — L.  will  see  the  philosophy  of  this  joke, 
if  nobody  else  does. — As  to  our  fair  friends,  we  find  it  difficult  to 
think  of  them  and  our  subject  together.  We  fancy  their  counte- 
nances looking  so  frank  and  kind  over  our  disquisitions,  that  we 
long  to  have  them  turned  towards  ourselves  instead  of  the  paper. 
Every  pleasure  we  could  experience  in  a  friend's  approbation, 
we  have  felt  in  receiving  the  following  verses.  They  are  from  a 
writer,  who,  of  all  other  men,  knows  how  to  extricate  a  common 
thing  from  commonness,  and  to  give  it  an  underlook  of  pleasant 
consciousness  and  wisdom.  We  knew  him  directly,  in  spite  of 
his  stars.     His  hand  as  well  as  heart  betrayed  him. 

TO    MY    FKIEND    THE    INDICATOR. 

Your  easy  Essays  indicate  a  flow, 

Dear  Friend,  of  brain,  which  we  may  elsewhere  seek ; 

And  to  their  pages  I,  and  hundreds,  owe. 

That  Wednesday  is  the  sweetest  of  the  week.  ^ 

Such  observation,  wit,  and  sense,  are  shown. 


THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  ur. 


We  think  the  days  of  Bickerstaff  return'd  ; 
And  that  a  portion  of  that  oil  you  own, 
In  his  undying  midnight  lamp  which  burn'd. 
I  would  not  lightly  bruise  old  Priscian's  head, 
Or  wrong  the  rules  of  grammar  understood  ; 
But,  with  the  leave  of  Priscian  be  it  said. 
The  Indicative  is  your  Potential  Mood. 
Wit,  poet,  prose-man,  party-man,  translator — 
H ,  your  best  title  yet  is  Indicator. 


The  receipt  of  these  verses  has  set  us  upon  thinking  of  thf 
good-natured  countenance  which  men  of  genius,  in  all  ages,  havp 
for  the  most  part  shown  to  contemporary  writers ;  and  thence 
by  a  natural  transition,  of  the  generous  friendship  they  have 
manifested  for  each  other.  Authors,  like  other  men,  may  praise 
as  well  as  blame  for  various  reasons ;  for  interest,  for  vanity, 
for  fear:  and  for  the  same  reasons  they  may  be  silent.  But 
generosity  is  natural  to  the  humanity  and  the  strength  of  genius. 
Where  it  is  obscured,  it  is  usually  from  something  that  has  ren- 
dered it  misanthropical.  Where  it  is  glaringly  deficient,  the 
genius  is  deficient  in  proportion.  And  the  defaulter  feels  as 
much,  though  he  does  not  know  it.  He  feels,  that  the  least  addi- 
tion to  another's  fame  threatens  to  block  up  the  view  of  his  own. 

At  the  same  time,  praise  by  no  means  implies  a  sense  of  supe- 
riority. It  may  imply  that  we  think  it  worth  having ;  but  this 
may  arise  from  a  consciousness  of  our  sincerity,  and  from  a  cer- 
tain instinct  we  have,  that  to  relish  anything  exceedingly  gives  us 
a  certain  ability  to  judge,  as  well  as  a  right  to  express  our  admi- 
ration, of  it. 

On  all  these  accounts,  we  were  startled  to  hear  the  other  day 
that  Shakspeare  had  never  praised  a  contemporary  author.  We 
had  mechanically  given  him  credit  for  the  manifestation  of  every 
generosity  under  the  sun  ;  and  we  found  the  surprise  affect  us, 
not  as  authors  (which  would  have  been  a  vanity  not  even  Avar- 
ranted  by  our  having  the  title  in  common  with  him),  but  as  men. 
What  baulked  us  in  Shakspeare  seemed  to  baulk  our  faith  in  hu- 
manity. But  we  recovered  as  speedily.  Shakspeare  had  none 
of  the  ordinary  inducements,  which  make  men  niggardly  of  their 


CHAP.  Liv.]  ON  COMMENDATORY  VERSES.  79 

coramendation.  He  had  no  reason  either  to  be  jealous  or  afraid. 
He  was  the  reverse  of  unpopular.  His  own  claims  were  allowed. 
He  was  neither  one  who  need  be  silent  about  a  friend,  lest  he 
should  be  hurt  by  his  enemy ;  nor  one  who  nursed  a  style  or  a 
theory  by  himself,  and  so  was  obliged  to  take  upon  him  a  monopoly 
of  admiration  in  self-defence  ;  nor  was  he  one  who  should  gaze 
hmiself  blind  to  everything  else,  in  the  complacency  of  his  shallow. 
ness.  If  it  should  be  argued,  that  he  who  saw  through  human 
nature  was  not  likely  to  praise  it,  we  answer,  that  he  who  saw 
through  it  as  Shakspeare  did  was  the  likeliest  man  in  the  world 
to  be  kind  to  it.  Even  Swift  refreshed  the  bitterness  of  his  mis- 
anthropy in  his  love  for  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry  ;  and  what 
Swift  did  from  impatience  at  not  finding  men  better,  Shakspeare 
would  do  out  of  patience  in  finding  them  so  good.  We  instanced 
the  sonnet  in  the  collection  called  the  Passionate  Pilgrim,  begin- 


If  music  and  sweet  poetry  agree, 

in  which  Spenser  is  praised  so  highly.  It  was  replied,  that 
minute  inquiries  considered  that  collection  as  apocryphal.  This 
set  us  upon  looking  again  at  the  biographers  who  have  criticised 
it ;  and  we  see  no  reason,  for  the  present,  to  doubt  its  authenti- 
city. For  some  parts  of  it  we  would  answer  upon  internal  evi. 
dence,  especially,  for  instance,  the  Lover's  Complaint.  There 
are  two  lines  in  this  poem  which  would  alone  announce  him. 
They  have  the  very  trick  of  his  eye  : 

0  father,  what  a  hell  of  witchcraft  lies 
In  the  small  orb  of  one  particular  tear  ! 

But  inquirers  would  have  to  do  much  more  than  disprove  the 
authenticity  of  these  poems,  befoi'e  they  made  out  Shakspeare  to 
be  a  grudging  author.  They  would  have  to  undo  the  modesty 
and  kindliness  of  his  other  writings.  They  would  have  to  undo 
his  universal  character  for  "  gentleness,"  at  a  time  when  gentle 
meant  all  that  was  noble  as  well  as  mild.  They  would  have  to 
deform  and  to  untune  all  that  round,  harmonious  mind,  which  a 
great  contemporary  described  as  the  very  "  sphere  of  humanity  ;" 

28 


80  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  liv. 

to  deprive  him  of  the  epithet  given  him  in  the  school  of  Milton, 
"  unvulgar  ;"*  to  render  the  universality  of  wisdom  liable  to  the 
same  drawbacks  as  the  mere  universality  of  science  ;  to  take 
the  child's  heart  out  of  the  true  man's  body  ;  to  un-Shakspeare 
Shakspeare.  If  ShaKspeare  had  never  mentioned  a  contempo- 
rary in  his  life,  nor  given  so  many  evidences  of  a  cordial  and 
admiring  sense  of  those  about  him,  we  would  sooner  believe  that 
sheer  modesty  had  restrained  his  tongue,  than  the  least  approach 
to  a  petty  feeling.  We  can  believe  it  possible  that  he  may  have 
thought  his  panegyrics  not  wanted  ;  but  unless  he  degraded 
himself  wilfully,  in  order  to  be  no  better  than  any  of  his  fellow- 
creatures,  we  cannot  believe  it  possible  that  he  would  have 
thought  his  panegyrics  desired,  and  yet  withheld  them. 

It  is  remarkable  that  one  of  the  most  regular  contributors  of 
Commendatory  Verses  in  the  time  of  Shakspeare,  was  a  man 
whose  bluntness  of  criticism  and  feverish  surliness  of  manners 
have  rendered  the  most  suspected  of  a  jealous  grudgingness  ; — 
Ben  Jonson.  We  mean  not  to  detract  from  the  good-heartedness 
which  we  believe  this  eminent  person  to  have  possessed  at  bottom, 
when  we  say,  that  as  an  excess  of  modest  confidence  in  his  own 
generous  instincts  might  possibly  have  accounted  for  the  sparing- 
ness  of  panegyric  in  our  great  dramatist,  so  a  noble  distrust  of 
himself,  and  a  fear  lest  jealousy  should  get  the  better  of  his  in- 
stincts, might  possibly  account  for  Ben  Jonson's  tendency  to  dis- 
tribute his  praises  around  him.  If  so,  it  shows  how  useful  such 
a  distrust  is  to  one's  ordinary  share  of  humanity  ;  and  how  much 
safer  it  will  be  for  us,  on  these  as  well  as  all  other  occasions,  to 
venture  upon  likening  ourselves  to  Ben  Jonson  than  to  Shak- 
speare.  It  is  to  be  recollected  at  the  same  time,  that  Ben  Jon- 
son, in  his  old  age,,  was  the  more  prominent  person  of  the  two, 
as  a  critical  bestower  of  applause  ;  that  he  occupied  the  town- 
chair  of  wit  and  scholarship  ;  and  was  in  the  habit  of  sanction- 
ing the  pretensions  of  new  authors  by  a  sort  of  literary  adoption, 
calling  them  his  "  sons,"  §^d  "  sealing  them  of  the  tribe  ol 
Ben."     There  was  more  in  him  of  the  aristocracy  and  heraldry 

•  By  Milton's  nephew  Phillips,  in  his  Theatrxtm  Poetarum.  It  is  an 
eoithet  gfiven  in  all  the  spirit  which  it  attributes. 


CHAP,  uv.]  ON  COMMENDATORY  VERSES.  SI 

of  letters,  than  in  Shakspeare,  who,  after  all,  seems  to  have  been 
careless  of  fame  himself,  and  to  have  written  nothing  during  the 
chief  part  of  his  life  but  plays,  which  he  did  not  prmt.  Ben  Jon- 
son,  among  other  panegyrics,  wrote  high  and  affectionate  ones 
upon  Drayton,  William  Browne,  Fletcher  and  Beaumont.  His 
vfrses  to  the  memory  of  Shakspeare  are  a  noble  monument  to 
both  of  them.  The  lines  to  Beaumont  in  answer  for  some  of 
which  we  have  formerly  quoted,  we  must  repeat.  They  are 
delightful  for  a  certain  involuntary  but  manly  fondness,  and  for 
the  candor  with  which  he  confesses  the  joy  he  received  from 
such  commendation. 

How  do  I  love  thee,  Beaumont,  and  thy  Muse 
That  unto  me  doth  such  religion  use  ! 
How  do  I  fear  myself,  that  am  not  worth 
The  least  indulgent  thought  thy  pen  drops  forth  ! 
At  once  thou  mak'st  me  happy,  and  unmak'st: 
And  giving  largely  to  me,  more  thou  tak'st ! 
What  fate  is  mine,  that  so  itself  bereaves  ? 
What  art  is  thine,  that  so  thy  friend  deceives? 
When  even  there,  where  most  thou  praisest  me, 
For  writing  better,  I  must  envy  thee. 

Observe  the  good  effect  which  the  use  of  the  word  "  religion  "  has 
here,  though  somewhat  ultra-classical  and  pedantic.  A  certain 
pedantry,  in  the  best  sense  of  the  term,  was  natural  to  tlie 
author,  and  throws  a  grace  on  his  most  natural  moments. 

There  is  great  zeal  and  sincerity  in  Ben  Jonson's  lines  to 
Fletcher,  on  the  ill-success  of  his  Faithful  Shepherdess  ;  but  we 
have  not  room  for  them. 

Beaumont's  are  still  finer  ;  and  indeed  furnish  a  complete 
specimen  of  his  wit  and  sense,  as  well  as  his  sympathy  with  his 
friend.  His  indignation  against  the  critics  is  more  composed 
and  contemptuous.  His  uppermost  feeling  is  confidence  in  his 
friend's  greatness.  The  reader  may  here  see  what  has  always 
been  thought  by  men  of  genius,  of  people  who  take  the  ipse  dixils 
of  the  critics.  After  giving  a  fine  sense  of  the  irrepres.sil)le 
thirst  for  writing  in  a  poet,  he  says. 

Yet  wish  I  those  whom  I  for  friends  have  known. 
To  sing  their  thoughts  to  no  ears  but  their  own. 


Sa  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  mv 

Why  should  the  man,  whose  wit  ne'er  had  a  stain. 
Upon  the  public  stage  present  his  vein, 
And  make  a  thousand  men  in  judgment  sit, 
To  call  in  question  his  undoubted  wit, 
Scarce  two  of  which  can  understand  the  laws 
Which  they  should  judge  by,  nor  the  party's  cause  ? 
Among  the  rout  there  is  not  one  that  hath 
In  his  own  censure  an  explicit  faith. 
One  company,  knowing  they  judgment  lack. 
Ground  their  belief  on  the  next  man  in  black ; 
Others,  on  him  that  makes  signs,  and  is  mute ; 
Some  like  as  he  does  in  the  fairest  suit ; 
He  as  his  mistress  doth,  and  she  by  chance: 
Nor  want  there  those,  who  as  the  boy  doth  dance 
Between  the  acts,  will  censure  the  whole  play  ; 
Some  if  the  wax-lights  be  not  new  that  day : 
But  multitudes  there  are  whose  judgment  goes 
Headlong  according  to  the  actor's  clothes. 
For  this,  these  public  things  and  I,  agree 
So  ill,  that  but  to  do  a  right  for  thee, 
I  had  not  been  persuaded  to  have  hurl'd 
These  few,  ill-spoken  lines,  into  the  world, 
Both  to  be  read,  and  censured  of,  by  those, 
Whose  very  reading  makes  verse  senseless  prose. 

One  of  the  finest  pieces  of  commendatory  verse  is  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh's  upon  the  great  poem  of  Spenser.  He  calls  it  "  A 
Vision  upon  the  Faery  Queen." 

Methought  I  saw  the  grave  where  Laura  lay. 
Within  that  temple  where  the  vestal  flame 
Was  wont  to  burn :  and  passing  by  that  way 
To  see  that  buried  dust  of  living  fame. 
Whose  tomb  fair  Love,  and  fairer  Virtue  kept. 
All  suddenly  I  saw  the  Faery  Queen  : 
At  whose  approach  the  soul  of  Petrarch  wept. 
And  from  thenceforth  those  graces  were  not  seen 
(For  they  this  Queen  attended)  ;  in  whose  stead 
Oblivion  laid  him  down  on  Laura's  hearse, 
Hereat  the  hardest  stones  were  seen  to  bleed, 
And  groans  of  buried  ghosts  the  heavens  did  perse. 
Where  Homer's  sprite  did  tremble  all  for  grief. 
And  curst  th'  access  of  that  celestial  thief. 

This  is  highly  imaginative  and  picturesque.     We  fancy  our- 


CHAP.  Liv.]  ON  COMMENDATORY  VERSES.  83 

selves  in  one  of  the  most  beautiful  places  of  Italian  sepulture — 
quiet  and  hushing — looking  upon  a  tomb  of  animated  sculpture. 
It  is  the  tomb  of  the  renowned  Laura.  We  feel  the  spirit  of 
Petrarch  present,  without  being  visible.  The  fair  forms  of  Love 
and  Virtue  keep  watch  over  the  marble.  All  on  a  sudden,  from 
out  the  dusk  of  the  chapel  door,  the  Faery  Queen  is  beheld  ap- 
proaching the  tomb.  The  soul  of  Petrarch  is  heard  weeping  ; — 
an  intense  piece  of  fancy,  which  affects  one  like  the  collected 
tears  and  disappointment  of  living  humanity.  Oblivion  lays  him 
down  on  the  tomb  ; 

And  from  thenceforth  those  graces  were  not  seen. 

The  other  marbles  bleed  at  this  :  the  ghosts  of  the  dead  groan  : 
and  the  very  spirit  of  Homer  is  felt  to  tremble.  It  is  a  very 
grand  and  high  sonnet,  worthy  of  the  dominant  spirit  of  the  wri- 
ter. One  of  its  beauties,  however,  is  its  defect ;  if  defect  it  be, 
and  not  rather  a  fine  instance  of  the  wilful.  Comparisons  be- 
tween great  reputations  are  dangerous,  and  are  apt  to  be  made  too 
much  at  the  expense  of  one  of  them,  precisely  because  the  author 
knows  he  is  begging  the  question.  Oblivion  has  laid  him  down 
neither  on  Laura's  hearse  nor  the  Faery  Queen's  ;  and  Raleigh 
knew  he  never  would.  But  he  wished  to  make  out  a  case  for 
his  friend,  in  the  same  spirit  in  which  he  pushed  his  sword 
into  a  Spanish  settlement  and  carried  all  before  him. 

The  verses  of  Andrew  Marvell  prefixed  to  Paradise  Lost,  be 
ginning, 

Where  I  beheld  the  poet,  blind,  yet  bold, 

are  well  known  to  every  reader  of  Milton,  and  justly  admired 
by  all  who  know  what  they  read.  We  remember  how  delighted 
we  were  to  find  who  Andrew  Marvell  was,  and  that  he  could 
be  pleasant  and  lively  as  well  as  grave.  Spirited  and  worthy 
as  this  panegyric  is,  the  reader  who  is  not  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  Marvell's  history,  does  not  know  all  its  spirit  and  worth. 
That  true  friend  and  excellent  patriot  stuck  to  his  old  acquaint- 
ance at  a  period  when  canters  and  time-servers  had  turned 
their  backs  upon  him,  and  when  they  would  have  rjiade  the  very 

2S* 


S4 


THE  INDICATOR.  [chap    i  iv 


Knowledge  ofhim,  which  they  had  had  the  honor  of  sharing,  the  ruin 
of  those  that  put  their  desertion  to  the  blush.  There  is  a  noblo 
burst  of  indignation  on  this  subject,  in  Marvell's  prose  works, 
against  a  fellow  of  the  name  of  Parker,  who  succeeded  in  obtain- 
ing a  bishopric.  Parker  seems  to  have  thought  that  Marvell 
would  have  been  afraid  of  acknowledging  his  ola  acquaintance  ; 
but  so  far  from  resembling  the  bishop  in  that  or  any  other  par- 
ticular, he  not  only  publicly  proclaimed  and  gloried  in  the  friend- 
ship of  the  poet,  but  reminded  Master  Parker  that  he  had  once 
done  the  same. 

We  must  be  cautious  how  we  go  on  quoting  verses  upon  this 
agreeable  subject ;  for  they  elbow  one's  prose  out  at  a  great  rate. 
They  sit  in  state,  with  a  great  vacancy  on  each  side  of  them, 
like  Henry  the  Eighth  in  a  picture  of  Holbein's.  The  wits  who 
flourished  in  the  time  of  the  Stuarts  and  Queen  Anne  were  not 
behind  the  great  poets  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  in  doing  justice 
to  their  contemporaries.  Dryden  hailed  the  appearance  of  Con- 
greve  and  Oldham.  Congreve's  merits  were  universally  ac- 
knowledged except  by  the  critics.  We  need  not  refer  to  the 
works  of  Pope,  Gay,  Steele,  Prior,  (fee.  If  Swift  abused  Dry- 
den (who  is  said  to  have  told  him  he  would  never  be  a  poet),  he 
also  abused  in  a  most  unwarrantable  and  outrageous  manner  Sir 
Richard  Steele,  for  whose  Tatler  he  had  written.  His  abuse 
was  not  a  thing  of  literary  jealousy,  but  of  some  personal  or 
party  spite.  The  union  of  all  three  was  a  perfection  of  con- 
sciousness, reserved  for  the  present  time.  But  Swift's  very 
fondness  vented  itself,  like  Buonaparte's,  in  slaps  of  the  cheek. 
He  was  morbid,  and  liked  to  create  himself  cause  for  pity  or 
regret.  "  The  Dean  was  a  strange  man."  According  to  Mrs. 
Pilkington,  he  would  give  her  a  pretty  hard  thump  now  and 
then,  of  course  to  see  how  amiably  she  took  it.  Upon  the  same 
principle,  he  tells  us  in  the  verses  on  his  death,  that 

Friend  Pope  will  g:rieve  a  month,  and  Gay 
A  week,  and  Arbuthnot  a  day. 

This  was  to  vex  them,  and  make  them  prove  his  words  false  by 
complaining  of  their  injustice.  He  himself  once  kept  a  letter 
iinopened  for  some  days,   because  he  was  afraid  it  contained 


CHAP.  Liv.]  ON  COMMENDATORY  VERSES.  85 

news  of  a  friend's  death.  See  how  he  makes  his  very  coarseness 
and  irritability  contribute  to  a  panegyric  ; — 

When  Pope  shall  in  one  couplet  fix 
More  sense  than  I  can  do  in  six, 
It  gives  me  such  a  jealous  fit, 
I  cry,  "  Pox  take  him  and  his  wit !" 

We  must  finish  our  quotations  with  a  part  of  some  sprightly 
verses  addressed  to  Garth  on  his  Dispensary,  by  a  friend  of  the 
name  of  Codrington.  Codrington  was  one  of  those  happily- 
tempered  spirits,  who  united  the  characters  of  the  gentleman,  the 
wit,  and  the  man  of  business.  He  was,  in  the  best  sense  of  the 
word,  "  A  person  of  wit  and  honor  about  town." 

The  courtier's,  scholar's,  soldier's,  eye,  tongue,  sword. 

He  was  bom  in  Barbadoes,  and  after  residing  some  time  in 
England,  and  serving  with  great  gallantry  as  an  officer  in  various 
parts  of  the  world,  became  Governor-General  of  the  Leeward 
Islands.  He  resigned  his  government  in  the  course  of  a  few 
years,  and  died  in  Barbadoes  in  the  mid.st  of  his  favorite  studies. 
Among  the  variety  of  his  accomplishments  he  did  not  omit  divi- 
nity  ;  and  he  was  accounted  a  master  of  metaphysics.  His 
public  life  he  had  devoted  to  his  country;  his  private  he  divided 
among  his  books  and  friends.  If  the  verses  before  us  are  not  so 
good  as  those  of  the  old  poets  they  are  as  good  in  their  way,  are 
as  sincere  and  cordial,  and  smack  of  the  champagne  on  his  table. 
We  like  them  on  many  accounts,  for  we  like  the  panegyrist,  and 
have  an  old  liking  for  his  friend — we  like  the  taste  they  express 
in  friendship  and  in  beauty  ;  and  we  like  to  fancy  that  our  good- 
humored  ancestors  in  Barbadoes  enjoyed  the  Governor's  society, 
and  relished  their  wine  with  these  identical  triplets. 

TO  MY   FRIEND  THE  AUTHOR,  DESIRING  MY  OPINION  OF   HIS   POETM. 

Ask  mo  not,  friend,  what  I  approve  or  blame  ; 
Perhaps  I  know  not  what  I  like  or  damn  ; 
I  can  be  pleased,  and  I  dare  own  I  am, 

I  read  thee  over  with  a  lover's  eye ; 

Thou  hast  no  faults,  or  I  no  faults  can  spy  ; 

Thou  art  all  beauty,  or  all  blindness  I. 


86  THE  INDICATOR  [chap,  liv 

Critics  and  aged  beaux  of  fancy  chaste, 
Who  ne'er  had  fire,  or  else  whose  fire  is  past, 
Must  judge  by  rules  what  they  want  force  to  taste. 

I  would  a  poet,  like  a  mistress,  try, 

Not  by  her  hair,  her  hand,  her  nose,  her  eye  ; 

But  by  some  nameless  power  to  give  me  joy. 

The  nymph  has  Grafton's,  Cecil's,  Churchill's  charms. 

If  with  resistless  fires  my  soul  she  warms, 

With  balm  upon  her  lips,  and  raptures  in  her  arms. 

Literary  loves  and  jealousies  were  much  the  same  in  other 
ages  as  the  present ;  but  we  have  a  great  deal  more  of  the 
loves  than  the  reverse  ;  because  genius  survives,  and  ignorance 
does  not.  The  ancient  philosophers  had  a  delicate  way  of  honor 
ing  their  favorites,  by  inscribing  treatises  with  their  names.  It 
is  thought  a  strange  thing  to  Xenophon  that  he  never  mentions 
Plato.  The  greater  part  of  the  miscellaneous  poetry  of  the 
Greeks  is  lost ;  or  we  should  doubtless  see  numerous  evidences 
of  the  intercourse  of  their  authors.  The  Greek  poets  of  Sicily, 
Theocritus  and  Moschus,  are  affectionate  in  recording  the  merits 
of  their  contemporaries.  Varius  and  Gallus,  two  eminent  Ro- 
man  poets,  scarcely  survive  but  in  the  panegyrics  of  their  contem- 
poraries. Dante  notices  his,  and  his  predecessors.  Petrarch 
and  Boccaccio  publicly  honored,  as  they  privately  loved  one  an- 
other. Tasso,  the  greatest  poet  of  his  time,  was  also  the  great- 
est panegyrist ;  and  so,  as  might  be  expected,  was  Ariosto. 
The  latter  has  introduced  a  host  of  his  friends  by  name,  male 
and  female,  at  the  end  of  his  great  work,  coming  down  to  the 
shores  of  poetry  to  weleome  him  home  after  his  voyage.  There 
is  a  pleasant  imitation  of  it  by  Gay,  applied  to  Pope's  conclusion 
of  Homer.  Montaigne,  who  had  the  most  exalted  notions  of 
friendship,  which  he  thought  should  have  everything  in  com 
mon,  took  as  much  zeal  in  the  literary  reputation  of  his  friends, 
as  in  everything  else  that  concerned  them.  The  wits  of 
the  time  of  Henry  the  Fourth,  of  Louis  the  Fourteenth,  and 
of  Louis  the  Fifteenth, — Malherbe,  Racan,  Corneille,  Moliere, 
Racine,  Chaulieu,  La  Fare,  D'Alembert,  Voltaire,  &c.,  not  ex- 
cepting    Boileau,   where    he   was   personally    intimate    with    a 


CMAP.  Liv.J  ON  C0MME1NJ)AT0RY  vpHSES.  *- 

brother  author — all  do  honor  in  this  respect  to  the  sociality  of 
their  nation.  It  is  the  same,  we  believe,  with  the  German  writ- 
ers ;  and  if  the  Spanish  winced  a  little  under  the  domination  of 
Lope  de  Vega,  they  were  chivalrous  in  giving  him  pernaps  more 
than  his  due.  Camoens  had  the  admiration  of  literary  friends  as 
poor  as  himself,  if  he  had  nothing  €  m       *ut  this  was  something. 


THE  INDICATOR.  I  chap.  i.t. 


eH^.P7ER  LV. 

A  Word  upon  Indexes. 

Index-making  has  been  held  to  be  the  driest  as  well  as  the  low. 
est  species  of  writing.  We  shall  not  dispute  the  humbleness  of 
it ;  but  since  we  have  had  to  make  an  index  ourselves,*  we  have 
discovered  that  the  task  need  not  be  so  very  dry.  Calling  to 
mind  indexes  in  general,  we  found  them  presenting  us  a  variety 
of  pleasant  memories  and  contrasts.  We  thought  of  those  to 
the  Spectator,  which  we  used  to  look  at  so  often  at  school,  for 
the  sake  of  choosing  a  paper  to  abridge.  We  thought  of  the 
index  to  the  Pantheon  of  Fabulous  Histories  of  the  Heathen 
Gods,  which  we  used  to  look  at  oftener.  We  remember  how  we 
imagined  we  should  feel  some  day,  if  ever  our  name  should 
appear  in  the  list  of  Hs ;  as  thus.  Home,  Howard,  Hume,  Hu- 

niades, .     The  poets  would  have  been  better,  but  then  the 

names,  though  perhaps  less  unfitting,  were  not  so  flattering ;  as 

for  instance,  Halifax,  Hammond,  Harte,  Hughes, .      We 

did  not  like  to  come  after  Hughes. 

We  have  just  been  looking  at  the  indexes  to  the  Tatler  and 
Spectator,  and  never  were  more  forcibly  struck  with  the  feeling 
we  formerly  expressed  about  a  man's  being  better  pleased  with 
other  writers  than  with  himself.  Our  index  seemed  the  poorest 
and  most  second-hand  thing  in  the  world  after  theirs ;  but  let 
any  one  read  theirs,  and  then  call  an  index  a  dry  thing  if  he  can. 
As  there  "  is  a  soul  of  goodness  in  things  evil,"  so  there  is  a  soul 
of  humor  in  things  dry,  and  in  things  dry  by  profession.  Law- 
yers know  this,  as  well  as  index-makers,  or  they  would  die  of 
sheer  thirst  and  aridity.  But  as  grapes,  ready  to  burst  with 
wine,  issue  out  of  the  most  stony  places,  like  jolly  fellows  bring- 
ing Burgundy  out  of  a  cellar ;  so   an   index,  like   the  Tatler's, 

•  To  the  original  edition  of  the  Indicator. 


CHAP.  Lv.]  A  WORD  UPON  INDEXES.  89 

often  gives  us  a  taste  of  the  quintessence  of  his  humor,  for  in- 
stance,— 

"  Bickerstaff,  Mr.,  account  of  his  ancestors,  141.  How  his 
race  was  improved,  142.  Not  in  partnership  with  Lillie,  250. 
Catched  writing  nonsense,  47. 

"  Dead  men,  who  are  to  be  so  accounted,  247." 

Sometimes  he  has  a  stroke  of  pathos,  as  touching  in  its  brevity 
as  the  account  it  refers  to  ;  as, 

"  Love-letters  between  Mr.  BickerstafF  and  Maria,  184 — 186. 
Found  in  a  grave,  289." 

Sometimes  he  is  simply  moral  and  graceful ;  as, 

"  Tenderness  and  humanity  inspired  by  the  Muses,  258.  No 
true  greatness  of  mind  without  it,  ibid." 

At  another  he  says  perhaps  more  than  he  intended ;  as, 

"  Laura,  her  perfections  and  excellent  character,  19.  De- 
spised by  her  husband,  ibid." 

The  index  to  Cotton's  Montaigne,  probably  written  by  the  trans- 
lator himself,  is  often  pithy  and  amusing.     Thus  in  volume  2d, 

"  Anger  is  pleased  with,  and  flatters  itself,  618. 

"  Beasts  inclined  to  avarice,  225. 

"  Children  abandoned  to  the  care  and  government  of  their 
fathers,  613. 

"  Drunkenness,  to  a  high  and  dead  degree,  16. 

"  Joy,  profound,  has  more  severity  than  gaiety  in  it. 

"  Monsters,  are  not  so  to  God,  612. 

"  Voluptuousness  of  the  Cynics,  418." 

Sometimes  we  meet  with  graver  quaintnesses  and  curious  re- 
lations, as  in  the  index  to  Sandys's  Ovid : 

"  Diana,  no  virgin,  scoft  at  by  Lucian,  p.  55. 

"  Dwarfes,  an  Italian  Dwarfe  carried  about  in  a  parrot's  cage, 

113. 

"  Eccho,  at  Twilleriesin  Paris,  heard  to  repeat  a  verse  without 
failing  in  one  syllable,  p.  58. 

"  Ship  of  the  Tyrrhenians  miraculously  stuck  fast  in  the  sea, 
p.  63. 

"  A  Historie  of  a  Bristol  ship  stuck  fast  in  the  deepe  Sea  by 
Witchcraft  ;  for  which  twentie-five  Witches  were  executed, 
ibid." 


J»  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  lvi 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

An  Old  School-Book. 

There  is  a  school-book  by  the  egregious  John  Amos  Comenius, 
(who  fixed  the  millenium  for  the  year  1672)  in  which  the  learned 
author  has  lumped  together,  in  a  very  singular  way,  all  sorts  of 
trades,  pursuits,  productions,  merriments,  and  disasters.  As 
everything  which  is  saleable  is  on  a  level  with  booksellers,  so 
everything  which  has  a  Latin  word  for  it,  was  alike  important 
to  the  creator  of  the  Orbis  Pictus :  for  so  the  book  is  called. 

He  sees  with  equal  eye,  as  construing  all, 
A  hero  perish  or  a  sparrow  fall. 

The  tormenting  of  Malefactors,  Supplicia  Malefactorum,  is  no 
more  in  his  eyes  than  the  making  of  honey,  or  Mellijicmm. 
Shipwreck,  being  Naufragium,  he  holds  in  no  graver  light 
than  a  feast,  which  is  Convivium  ;  and  the  feast  is  no  merrier 
than  the  shipwreck.  He  has  wood-cuts,  with  numerals  against 
the  figures ;  to  which  the  letter-press  refers.  In  one  of  these, 
his  "  Deformed  and  Monstrous  People"  cut  as  jaunty  a  figure 
as  his  Adam  and  Eve,  and  seem  to  pique  themselves  on  their 
titles  of  Deformes  et  Monstrosi.  In  another  the  soul  of  man  is 
described  by  a  bodily  outline,  standing  against  a  sheet.  He  is 
never  moved  but  by  some  point  of  faith.  Thus,  "  Godliness," 
he  says,  "treads  reason  under  foot,  that  barking  dog,  No.  6." 
Ohlatrantem  Canem,  6.  The  translation,  observe,  is  worthy  of 
the  original.     Again  : — 


Woe  to  the  mad 
Wizards  and  Witches, 
who  give  themselves  to  the  Devil 
(being  inclosed  in  a  Circle,  7. 
calling  upon  him 
with  Charms) 
they  dally  with  him 
and  fall  from  God  ! 

for  they  shall  receive  theit  i  nam  cum  illo 

reward  with  him.  I  mercedem  accipient 


Vae  dementibus 
Magis  et  Lamiis, 
qui  Cacodiemoni  se  dedunt 
(inclusi  Circulo,  7. 
eum  advocantes 
incantamentis) 
cum  eo  coUudunt 
et  a  Deo  deficiunt ! 


CRAP.  LVI.] 


AN  OLD  SCHOOL-BOOK. 


91 


But  of  the    fall  of  Adam  and  Eve  he  contents  himself  with 
this  pithy  account  : 


These  being  tempted 
by  the  Devil  under  the  shape 
of  a  serpent,  3. 
when  they  had  eaten  of  the 
fruit  of  the  forbidden  Tree,  4. 
were  condemned  {Five). 
to  misery  and  death, 
with  all  their  posterity, 
and  cast  out  of  Paradise,  6. 


Hi,  seducti 
a  Diabolo  sub  specie 
Serpentis,  3. 
cum  comederunt 
de  fructu  vetitae  Arboris,  4. 
damnatisunt,  5. 
ad  miseriam  et  mortem, 
cum  omni  posteritate  sua, 
et  ejecti  e  Paradiso,  6. 


Opposite  to  this,  is  the  account  of  fish ; 


Add  Herrings,  7. 
which  are  brought  pickled, 
and  Plaice,  8.  and  Cod,  9. 
which  are  brought  dry  ; 
and  the  sea-monsters,  Sfc. 


Adde  Haleces,  7. 
qui  salsi, 

et  Passeres,  8.  cum  Asellis,  9 
qui  adferuntur  arefacti ; 
et  monstra  marina,  &c. 


Of  a  similar  aspect  of  complacency  is  his  account  of  the  Last 
Judgment : 


When  the  Godly  and  elect,  4. 
shall  enter  into  life  eternal, 
into  the  place  of  Bliss, 
and  the  new  Jerusalem,  5. 
But  the  wicked 
and  the  damned,  6. 
jvith  the  Devils,  7. 
ihall  be  thrust  into  Hell.  (No.  8.) 
♦o  be  there  tormented  for  ever. 


Ubi  pii  ( justi)  et  electi,  4. 
introibunt  in  vitam  eternam, 
in  locum  Beatitudinis, 
et  novam  Hierosolymam,  5 
Impii  vero 
et  damnati,  6. 
cum  Cacod.Emonibu3,  7. 
in  Gehennam,  S.  dutrudentur, 
ibi  cruciandi  aeternum. 


The  Shipwreck  ends  genteelly  : 


Some  escape, 
either  on  a  plank,  7. 
and  by  swimming, 
or  in  a  Boat  ;    8. 
Part  of  the  Wares, 
with  the  dead  folks, 
is  carried  out  of  the  sea,  9. 
upon  the  shores. 


Quidam  evadunt, 
vel  tabula,  7. 
ac  enatando, 
vel  Scapha;   8. 
Pars  Mercium 
cum  mortuis 
a.  Mari,  9.   in  littora  defertur 


So  in  the  Tormenting  of  Malefactors,  he  speaks  of  torture  in 
i  parenthesis,  and  talks  of  pulling  traitors  in  pieces  in  the  styla 

29 


92 


THE  INDICATOR. 


[CHA».  LTI 


of  a  nota-bene.     "  They  that  have  their  life  given  them  "  appear 
to  be  still  worse  off. 


Malefactors,  1. 

are  brought 

from  the  Prison,  3. 

(where  they  were  wont  to  be 

tortured)  by  Serjeants,  2. 

Some,  before  they  are  executed, 

have  their  Tongues  cut  out,  11. 

or  have  their  Hand,  12. 

cut  off  upon  a  Block,  13. 

or  are  burnt  with  Pincers,  14 

They  that  have  their  Life 

given  them, 

are  set  on  the  pillory,  16. 

are  strapado'd,  17. 

are  set  upon  a  Wooden  Horse,  18. 

have  their  ears  cut  off,    19. 

are  whipped  with  Rods,  20. 

are  branded, 

are  banished, 

are  condemned 

to  the  Galleys, 

or  to  peroetual  Imprisonment. 


Traitors  are  pulled  in  pieces 
with  four  Horses. 


Malefici,  1. 

producuntur, 

e  Carcere,  3. 

(ubi  torqueri  solent) 

per  Licteres,  2. 

Quidam  antequam  supplicio 

afficiantur  eliguantur,  11. 

aut  plectuntur  Manu,  12. 

super  cippum,  13. 

aut  Forcipibus,  14.  uruntur. 

Vita  donati 

constringuntur  Numeleis,  16 

luxantur,  17. 

imponuntur  Equuleo,  18. 

truncatus  Auribus,  19. 

caeduntur  Virgis,  20. 

stigmate  notuntur, 

relegantur, 

damnantur 

ad  Triremes, 

vel  ad  Carcerem  perpetuam. 


Perduelles  discerpuntur 
quadrigis. 


CHAP.  Lvii.]  OF  DREAMS  93 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

Of  Dreams. 

The  materialists  and  psychologists  are  at  lissue  upon  the  subject 
of  dreams.  The  latter  hold  them  to  be  one  among  the  many 
proofs  of  the  existence  of  a  soul :  the  former  endeavor  to  account 
for  them  upon  principles  altogether  corporeal.  We  must  own, 
that  the  effect  of  their  respective  arguments,  as  is  usual  with  us 
on  these  occasions,  is  not  so  much  to  satisfy  us  with  either,  as  to 
dissatisfy  us  with  both.  The  psychologist,  with  all  his  struggles, 
never  appears  to  be  able  to  get  rid  of  his  body  ;  and  the  material- 
ist leaves  something  extremely  deficient  in  the  vivacity  of  his 
proofs,  by  his  ignorance  of  that  primum  mobile,  which  is  the  soul 
of  everything.  In  the  mean  time,  while  they  go  on  with  their 
laudable  inquiries  (for  which  we  have  a  very  sincere  respect),  it 
is  our  business  to  goon  recommending  a  taste  for  results,  as  well 
as  causes,  and  turning  everything  to  account  in  this  beautiful 
star  of  ours,  the  earth.  There  is  no  reason  why  the  acutest 
investigator  of  mysteries  should  not  enjoy  his  existence,  and  have 
his  earthly  dreams  made  as  pleasant  as  possible ;  and  for  our  parts, 
we  see  nothing  at  present,  either  in  body  or  soul,  but  a  medium 
for  a  world  of  perceptions,  the  very  unpleasantest  of  whose 
dreams  are  but  warnings  to  us  how  we  depart  from  the  health 
and  natural  piety  of  the  pleasant  ones, 

Wnat  seems  incontrovertible  in  the  case  of  dreams  is,  that  they 
are  most  apt  to  take  place  when  the  body  is  most  affected.  They 
seem  to  turn  most  upon  us  when  the  suspension  of  the  will  has 
been  reduced  to  its  most  helpless  state  by  indulgence.  The  door 
of  the  fancy  is  left  without  its  keeper,  and  forth  issue,  pell-mell, 
the  whole  rout  of  ideas  or  images,  which  had  been  stored  within 
the  brain,  and  kept  to  their  respective  duties.  They  are  like  a 
icl.ool  let  loose,  or  the  winds  in  Virgil,  or  Lord  Anson's  drunken 


94  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  lv» 

sailors   at  Panama,  who  dressed   themselves  up  in  all  sorts  of 
ridiculous  apparel. 

We  were  about  to  say,  that  being  writers,  we  are  of  necessity 
dreamers;   for  thinking  disposes  the  bodily  faculties  to  be  more 
than   usually   affected    by   the  causes  that  generally   produce 
dreaming.     But  extremes  appear  to   meet  on   this,  as  on  other 
occasions,  at  least  as  far  as  the  meditative  power  is  concerned  ; 
for  there  is  an  excellent  reasoner  now  living,  who  telling  another 
that  he  was  not  fond  of  the  wilder  parts  of  the  Arabian  Nights, 
was  answered  with  great  felicity,  "  Then  you  never  dream."    It 
turned  out  that  he  really  dreamt  little.     Here  the  link  is  impaired 
that  connects  a  tendency  to  indigestion  with  thinking  on  the  one 
hand,  and  dreaming  on  the  other.     If  we  are  to  believe  Herodo- 
tus, the  Atlantes,  an  African  people,  never  dreamt;   which  Mon- 
taigne is  willing  to  attribute  to  their  never  having  eaten  anything 
that  died  of  itself     It  is  to  be  presumed  that  he  looked  upon  their 
temperance  as  a  matter  of  course.     The  same  philosopher,  who 
was  a  deep  thinker,  and  of  a  delicate  constitution,  informs  us  that 
he  himself  dreamt  but  sparingly  ;    but  then   when   he  did,  his 
dreams  were  fantastic,  though  cheerful.     This  is  the  very  triumph 
of  the  animal   spirits,   to   unite  the  strangeness  of  sick  dreams 
with  the   cheerfulness  of  healthy  ones.      To   these  exception? 
against  the  usual  theories  we  may  add,  that  dreams  are  by  no 
means  modified  of  necessity  by  what  the  mind  has  been  occupied 
with   in  the  course  of  the   day,  or  even  of  months ;   for,  during 
our  two  years'  confinement  in   prison,  we  did    not  dream  more 
than  twice  of  our  chief  subjects  of  reflection,  the   prison   itself 
not  excepted.*     The  two  dreams  were  both  connected  with  the 
latter,  and  both  the  same.     We  fancied  that  we  had  slipped  out 
of  the  jail,  and  gone  to  the  theatre,  where  we  were  horrified  by 
seeing  the   faces  of  the   whole   audience   unexpectedly  turned 
upon  us. 

It  is  certain  enough,  however,  that  dreams  in  general  proceed 
from  indigestion  ;  and   it  appears  nearly  as  much  so,  that  they 

*  See  a  remarkable  coincidence  in  the  Essay  on  Dreams,  in  Mr.  Hazlitt' 
Plain  Speaker. 


CHAP.  Lvn.]  OF  DREAMS.  95 

are  more  or  less  strange  according  to  the  waking  fancy  of  the 
dreamer. 

All  dreams,  as  in  old  Galen  I  have  read, 

Are  from  repletion  and  complexion  bred, 

From  rising  fumes  of  indigested  food, 

And  noxious  humors  that  infect  the  blood. 

— When  choler  overflows,  then  dreams  are  bred 

Of  flames,  and  all  the  family  of  red. 

— Choler  adust  congeals  the  blood  with  fear, 

Then  black  bulls  toss  us,  and  black  devils  tear. 

In  sanguine  airy  dreams  aloft  we  bound. 

With  rheums  oppress'd,  we  sink,  in  rivers  drown'd. 

Dryden's  Cock  and  the  Fox,  from  Chaucer. 

Again,  in  another  passage,  which  is  worth  quoting  instead  of  the 
original,  and  affords  a  good  terse  specimen  of  the  author's  ver- 
sification : — 

Dreams  are  but  interludes  which  Fancy  makes  , 
When  Monarch  Reason  sleeps,  this  mimic  wakes; 
Compounds  a  medley  of  disjointed  things, 
A  mob  of  cobblers  and  a  court  of  kings :  * 
Light  fumes  are  merry,  grosser  fumes  are  sad : 
Both  are  the  reasonable  soul  run  mad  ; 
And  many  monstrous  forms  in  sleep  we  see, 
That  neither  were,  nor  are,  nor  e'er  can  be. 
Sometimes  forgotten  things,  long  cast  behind, 
Rush  forward  in  the  brain,  and  come  to  mind. 
The  nurse's  legends  are  for  truths  received. 
And  the  man  dreams  but  what  the  boy  believed  ; 
Sometimes  we  but  rehearse  a  former  play,  ^ 

The  night  restores  our  actions  done  by  day,  > 

As  hounds  in  sleep  will  open  for  their  prey.  3 

In  short,  the  farce  of  dreams  is  of  a  piece, 
Chimeras  all ;  and  more  absurd  or  less. 

It  is  probable  that  a  trivial  degree  of  indigestion  will  give  rise 
to  very  fantastic  dreams  in  a  fanciful  mind  ;  while,  on  tlie  other 
hand,  a  good  orthodox  repletion   is  necessary  towards  a  fanciful 

♦  Perhaps  a  misprint  for 

A  court  of  cobblers  and  a  mob  of  kings. 

2y* 


•)6  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  lvii, 

creation  in  a  dull  one.  It  shall  make  an  epicure,  of  any  vivacit}', 
act  as  many  parts  in  his  sleep,  as  a  tragedian,  "  for  that  night 
only."  The  inspirations  of  veal,  in  particular,  are  accounted 
extremely  Delphic  ;  Italian  pickles  partake  of  the  same  spirit 
as  Dante  ;  and  a  butter-boat  should  contain  as  many  ghosts  as 
Charon's. 

There  is  a  passage  in  Lucian,  which  would  have  made  a  good 
subject  for  those  who  painted  the  temptations  of  the  saints.  It  is 
a  description  of  the  City  of  Dreams,  very  lively  and  crowded. 
We  quote  after  Natalis  Comes,  not  having  the  True  History  by 
us.  The  city,  we  are  told,  stands  in  an  immense  plain,  sur- 
rounded by  a  thick  forest  of  tall  poppy-trees,  and  enormous 
mandragoras.  The  plain  is  also  full  of  all  sorts  of  somniculous 
plants,  and  the  trees  are  haunted  with  multitudes  of  owls  and 
bats,  but  no  other  bird.  The  city  is  washed  by  the  River  Lethe, 
called  by  others  the  Night-bringer,  whose  course  is  inaudible, 
and  like  the  flowing  of  oil.  (Spenser's  follower,  Browne,  has 
been  here  : 

Where  consort  none  other  fowl, 
Save  the  bat  and  sullen  owl ; 
Where  flows  Lethe  without  coil, 
Softly,  like  a  stream  of  oil. 

Inner  Temple  Mask.) 

There  are  two  gates  to  the  city :  one  of  horn,  in  which  almost 
everything  that  can  happen  in  sleep  is  represented,  as  in  a  trans- 
parency ;  the  other  of  ivory,  in  which  the  dreams  are  but  dimly 
shadowed.  The  principal  temple  is  that  of  Night ;  and  there  are 
others,  dedicated  to  Truth  and  Falsehood,  who  have  oracles.  The 
population  consists  of  Dreams,  who  are  of  an  infinite  variety  of 
shape.  Some  are  small  and  slender :  others  distorted,  humprd, 
and  monstrous  ;  others  proper  and  tall,  with  blooming  good- 
tempered  faces.  OtherS;  again,  have  terrible  countenances,  are 
winged,  and  seem  eternally  threatening  the  city  with  some  cala- 
mity ;  while  others  walk  about  in  the  pomp  and  garniture  of  kings. 
If  any  mortal  comes  into  the  place,  there  is  a  multitude  of  domestic 
Dreams,  who  meet  him  with  offers  of  service ;  and  they  are 
followed  by  some  of  the  others,  that  bring  him  good  or  bad  news. 


CHAP   Lvii.]  OF  DREAMS.  97 

generally  false  ;  for  the  inhabitants  of  that  city  are,  for  the 
most  part,  a  lying  and  crafty  generation,  speaking  one  thing  and 
thinking  another.  This  is  having  a  new  advantage  over  us. 
Only  think  of  the  mental  reservation  of  a  Dream  ! 

If  Lucian  had  divided  his  city  into  ranks  and  denominations, 
he  might  possibly  have  classed  them  under  the  heads  of  Dreams 
Lofty,  Dreams  Ludicrous,  Dreams  Pathetic,  Dreams  Horrible, 
Dreams  Bodily  Painful  or  Pleasant,  Dreams  of  Common  Life, 
Dreams  of  New  Aspects  of  Humanity,  Dreams  Mixed,  Fan- 
tastic, and  Utterly  Confused.  He  speaks  of  winged  ones,  which 
is  judicious,  for  they  are  very  common ;  but  unless  Natalis 
Comes,  who  is  not  a  very  bright  person,  misrepresents  him,  he 
makes  them  of  the  melancholy  class,  which,  in  general,  they 
are  not. 

In  sanguine  airy  dreams  aloft  we  bound. 

Nothing  is  more  common,  or  usually  more  pleasant,  than  to  dream 
of  flying.  It  is  one  of  the  htest  specimens  of  the  race  ;  for,  be- 
sides being  agreeable,  it  is  made  up  of  the  dreams  of  ordinary 
life,  and  those  of  surprising  combination.  Thus  the  dreamer 
sometimes  thinks  hL  is  flying  in  unknown  regions,  sometimes 
skimming  only  a  few  inches  above  the  ground,  and  wondering  he 
never  did  it  before.  He  will  even  dream  that  he  is  dreaming 
about  it ;  and  yet  is  so  fully  convinced  of  its  feasibility,  and  so 
astonished  at  his  never  having  hit  upon  so  delightful  a  truism, 
that  he  is  resolved  to  practise  it  the  moment  he  wakes.  "  One 
has  only,"  says  he,  "  to  give  a  little  spring  with  one's  foot,  so, — 
and  oh  !  it's  the  easiest  and  most  obvious  thing  in  the  world.  I'll 
always  skim  hereafter."  We  dreamt  once  that  a  woman  set  up 
some  Flying  Rooms,  as  a  person  does  a  tavern.  We  went  to 
try  them,  and  nothing  could  be  more  satisfactory  and  common- 
place on  all  sides.  The  landlady  welcomed  us  with  a  curtsey, 
hoped  for  friends  and  favors,  &c.,  and  then  showed  us  into  a 
spacious  room,  not  round,  as  might  be  expected,  but  long,  and 
after  the  usual  dining  fashion.  "  Perhaps,  sir,"  said  she,  "  you 
would  like  to  try  the  room."  Upon  which  we  made  no  more 
ado,  but  sprung  up  and  made  two  ortiiree  genteel  cirruits;  now 


08  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  lvii. 

taking  tlie  height  of  it,  like  a  house-lark,  and  then  cutting  the 
angles,  like  a  swallow.  "  Very  pretty  flying  indeed,"  said  we, 
"  and  very  moderate." 

A  house  for  the  purpose  of  taking  flights  in,  when  the  open 
air  was  to  be  had  for  nothing,  is  fantastic  enough ;  but  what 
shall  we  say  to  those  confoundings  of  all  time,  place,  and  sub- 
stance, which  are  constantly  happening  to  persons  of  any  crea- 
tiveness  of  stomach?  Thus,  you  shall  meet  a  friend  in  a. gate- 
way, who  besides  being  your  friend  shall  be  your  enemy  ;  and 
besides  being  Jones  or  Tomkins,  shall  be  a  bull  ;  and  besides 
asking  you  in,  shall  oppose  your  entrance.  Nevertheless  you 
are  not  at  all  surprised  ;  or  if  surprised,  you  are  only  so  at 
something  not  surprising.  To  be  Tomkins  and  a  bull  at  once, 
is  the  most  ordinary  of  common- places ;  but  that,  being  a  bull, 
he  should  have  horns,  is  what  astonishes  you  ;  and  you  are 
amazed  at  his  not  being  in  Holborn  or  the  Strand,  where  he 
never  lived.  To  be  in  two  places  at  once  is  not  uncommon  to 
a  dreamer.  He  will  also  be  young  and  old  at  the  same  time, 
a  schoolboy  and  a  man  ;  will  live  many  years  in  a  few  minutes, 
like  the  Sultan  wlio  dipped  his  head  in  the  tub  of  water  ;  will 
be  full  of  zeal  and  dialogue  upon  some  matter  of  indiffe- 
rence ;  go  to  the  opera  with  a  dish  under  his  arm,  to  be  in  the 
fashion  ;  talk  faster  in  verse  than  prose  ;  and  ask  a  set  of 
horses  to  a  musical  party,  telling  them  that  he  knows  they  will 
be  pleased,  because  blue  is  the  general  wear,  and  Mozart  has 
gone  down  to  Gloucestershire,  to  fit  up  a  house  for  Epami- 
nondas. 

It  is  a  curious  proof  of  the  concern  which  body  has  in  these 
vagaries,  that  when  you  dream  of  any  particular  limb  being  in 
pain,  you  shall  most  likely  have  gone  to  sleep  in  a  posture  that 
aflfects  it.  A  weight  on  the  feet  will  produce  dreams  in  which 
you  are  rooted  to  the  ground,  or  caught  by  a  goblin  out  of  the 
earth.  A  cramped  hand  or  leg  shall  get  you  tortured  in  the 
Inquisition  ;  and  a  head  too  much  thrown  back,  give  you  the 
sense  of  an  interminable  visitation  of  stifling.  The  nightmare, 
the  heaviest  punisher  of  repletion,  will  visit  some  persons  merely 
for  lying  on  their  backs  ;  which  shows  how  much  it  is  con- 
cerned in  a  particular  condition  of  the   frame.     Sometimes   i. 


CHAP.  Lvii.l  OF  DREAMS.  19 

lies  upon  the  chest  like  a  vital  lump.  Sometimes  it  comes  in 
the  guise  of  a  horrid  dwarf,  or  malignant  little  hag,  who  grins 
in  your  teeth  and  will  not  let  you  rise.  Its  most  common  enor- 
mity i€  to  pin  you  to  the  ground  with  excess  of  fear,  while 
something  dreadful  is  coming  up,  a  goblin  or  a  mad  bull. 
Sometimes  the  horror  is  of  a  very  elaborate  description,  such 
as  being  spell-bound  in  an  old  house,  which  has  a  mysterious 
and  shocking  possessor.  He  is  a  gigantic  deformity,  and  will 
pass  presently  through  the  room  in  which  you  are  sitting.  He 
comes,  not  a  giant,  but  a  dwarf,  of  the  most  strange  and  odious 
description,  hairy,  spider-like,  and  chuckling.  His  mere  pas- 
sage is  unbearable.  The  agony  rises  at  every  step.  You 
would  protest  against  so  malignant  a  sublimation  of  the  shock- 
ing, but  are  unable  to  move  or  speak.  At  length  you  give  loud 
and  long-drawn  groans,  and  start  up  with  a  prseternatural  effort, 
awake. 

Mr.  Coleridge,  whose  sleeping  imagination  is  proportioned  to 
his  waking,  has  described  a  fearful  dream  of  mental  and  bodily 
torture.  As  the  beautiful  poems  of  Christabel,  &c.,  which  ac- 
company it,  seem  to  have  been  too  imaginative  to  be  understood 
by  the  critics,  and  consequently  have  wanted  the  general  atten- 
tion which  the  town  are  pleased  to  give  or  otherwise  according 
to  the  injunctions  of  those  gentlemen,  we  shall  indulge  our- 
selves in  extracting  the  whole  of  it.  It  is  entitled  the  Pains  of 
Sleep. 

Ere  on  my  bed  my  limbs  I  lay 

It  hath  not  been  my  use  to  pray 

With  moving  lips  on  bended  knees; 

But  silently,  by  alow  degrees, 

My  spirit  I  to  love  compose, 

In  humble  trust  mine  eye-lids  close, 

With  reverential  resignation, 

No  wish  conceived,  no  thought  express'd! 

Only  a  sense  of  supplication, 

A  sense  o'er  all  my  soul  imprest. 

That  I  am  weak,  yet  not  unblest. 

Since  in  me,  round  me,  everywhere 

Eternal  Strength  and  Wisdom  are. 


00  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  lvii 

But  yester-night  I  pray'd  aloud. 
In  anguish  and  in  agony, 
Up-starting  from  the  fiendish  crowd 
Of  shapes  and  thoughts  that  tortured  me 
A  lurid  light,  a  trampling  throng, 
Sense  of  intolerable  wrong. 
And  whom  I  scorn'd,  those  only  strong  ! 
Thirst  of  revenge,  the  powerless  will, 
Still  baffled,  and  yet  burning  still ! 
Desire  with  loathing  strangely  mix'd 
On  wild  or  hateful  objects  fix'd, 
Fantastic  passions  I  madd'ning  brawl ! 
And  shame  and  terror  over  ail ! 
Deeds  to  be  hid  which  were  not  hid. 
Which  all  confused  I  could  not  know, 
Whether  I  suffer'd,  or  I  did  : 
For  all  seem'd  guilt,  remorse  or  woe, 
My  own  or  others  still  the  same, 
Life-stifling  fear,  soul-stifling  shame  ! 

So  two  nights  pass'd  :  the  night's  dismay 
Sadden'd  and  stunn'd  the  coming  day. 
Sleep,  the  wide  blessing,  seem'd  to  me 
Distemper's  worst  calamity. 
The  third  night,  when  my  own  loud  scream 
Had  waked  me  from  the  fiendish  dream, 
O'ercome  with  sufferings  strange  and  wild, 
I  wept  as  I  had  been  a  child  ; 
And  having  thus  by  tears  subdued 
My  anguish  to  a  milder  mood, 
Such  punishments,  I  said,  were  due 
To  natures  deepliest  stain'd  with  sin : 
For  aye  entempesting  anew 
Th'  unfathomable  hell  within 
The  horror  of  their  deeds  to  view. 
To  know  and  loathe,  yet  wish  to  do  ! 
Such  griefs  with  such  men  well  agree, 
But  wherefore,  wherefore  fall  on  me  ;' 
To  be  beloved  is  all  I  need. 
And  whom  I  love,  I  love  indeed. 

This  IS  the  dream  of  a  poet,  and  does  not  end  with  the  ques- 
tion  of  a  philosopher.  We  do  not  pretend  to  determine  why  we 
should  have  any  pains  at  all.  It  is  enough  for  us,  in  our  attempt 
to  diminish  them,  that  there  are  more  pleasant  than  painful  ex- 


CHAP.  Lvii.]  OF  DREAMS  101 

citements  in  the  world,  and  that  many  pains  are  the  causes  of 
pleasure.  But  what  if  these  pains  are  for  the  same  end  ?  What 
if  all  this  heaping  and  war  of  agonies  were  owing  to  the  author's 
having  taken  too  little  exercise,  or  eaten  a  heavier  supper  than 
ordinary  ?  But  then  the  proportion  !  What  proportion,  it  may 
be  asked,  is  there  between  the  sin  of  neglected  exercise  and 
such  infernal  visitations  as  these  ?  We  answer, — the  proportion, 
not  of  the  particular  offence,  but  of  the  general  consequences. 
We  have  before  observed,  but  it  cannot  be  repeated  too  often, 
that  Nature,  charitable  as  any  poet  or  philosopher  can  be  upon 
the  subject  of  merit  and  demerit,  &c.,  seems  to  insist,  beyond 
anything  else,  upon  our  taking  care  of  the  mould  in  which  she 
has  cast  us  ;  or  in  other  words,  of  that  ground-work  of  all  com- 
fort, that  box  which  contains  the  jewel  of  existence,  our  health. 
On  turning  to  the  preceding  poem  in  the  book,  entitled  Kuhla 
Khan,  we  perceive  that  in  his  introduction  to  that  pleasanter 
vision,  the  author  speaks  of  the  present  one  as  the  dream  of  pain 
and  disease.  Kubla  Khan,  which  was  meditated  under  the 
effects  of  opium,  he  calls  "  a  psychological  curiosity."  It  is  so  ; 
but  it  is  also,  and  still  more,  a  somatological  or  bodily  one ;  for 
body  will  effect  these  things  upon  the  mind,  when  the  mind  can 
do  no  such  thing  upon  itself;  and  therefore  the  shortest,  most 
useful,  and  most  philosophical  way  of  proceeding,  is  to  treat 
the  phenomenon  in  the  manner  most  serviceable  to  the  health 
and  comfort  of  both.  We  subjoin  the  conclusion  of  Kubla 
Khan,  as  beginning  with  an  exquisite  oiece  of  music,  and  ending 
with  a  most  poetical  phantasm  : — 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw; 
It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid. 
And  on  her  dulcimer  she  play'd. 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song, 
To  such  a  deep  delight  'twiiuld  win  me. 

That  with  music  loud  and  long 
I  would  build  that  dome  in  air,  * 

That  sunny  dome  !  those  caves  of  ice  ! 


rt9  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap  lvii. 

And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 
And  all  should  cry  Beware,  Beware, 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair ! 
Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice. 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread  ; 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed. 
And  drank  of  the  milk  of  Paradise. 

If  horrible  and  fantastic  dreams  are  the  most  perplexing,  there 
are  pathetic  ones  more  saddening.  A  friend  dreaming  of  the 
loss  of  his  friend,  or  a  lover  of  that  of  his  mistress,  or  a  kins- 
man of  that  of  a  dear  relation,  is  steeped  in  the  bitterness  ol 
death.  To  wake  and  find  it  not  true, — what  a  delicious  sensa- 
tion is  that!  On  the  other  hand,  to  dream  of  a  friend  or  a  be- 
loved relative  restored  to  us, — to  live  over  again  the  hours  ot 
childhood  at  the  knee  of  a  beloved  mother,  to  be  on  the  eve  ol 
marrying  an  affectionate  mistress,  with  a  thousand  other  joys 
snatched  back  out  of  the  grave,  and  too  painful  to  dwell  upon, — 
what  a  dreary  rush  of  sensation  comes  like  a  shadow  upon  u? 
when  we  awake  !  How  true,  and  divested  of  all  that  is  justly 
called  conceit  in  poetry,  is  that  termination  of  Milton's  sonnet 
on  dreaming  of  his  deceased  wife, — 

But  oh,  as  to  embrace  me  she  inclined, 

I  waked ;  she  fled ;  and  day  brought  back  my  night. 

It  is  strange  that  so  good  and  cordial  a  critic  as  Warton  should 
think  this  a  mere  conceit  on  his  blindness.  An  allusion  to  his 
blindness  may  or  may  not  be  involved  in  it ;  but  the  sense  of 
returning  shadow  on  the  mind  is  true  to  nature,  and  must  have 
been  experienced  by  every  one  who  has  lost  a  person  dear  to  him. 
There  is  a  beautiful  sonnet  by  Camoens  on  a  similar  occasion ; 
a  small  canzone  by  Sanazzaro,  which  ends  with  saying,  thai 
although  he  waked  and  missed  his  lady's  hand  in  his,  he  still 
tried  to  cheat  himself  by  keeping  his  eyes  shut ;  and  three  divine 
dreams  of  Laura  by  Petrai'ch,  Sonnet  xxxiv.,  Vol.  2,  Sonne/ 
Ixxix.,  ib.,  and  the  canzone  beginning 

Quando  il  soave  mio  fido  conforto. 
But  we  must  be  cautious  how  we  think  of  the  poets  on  this 


CHAP.  Lvii  1  ON  DREAMS.  103 

most  poetica  subject,  or  we  shall  write  three  articles  instead  of 
one.  As  it  is,  we  have  not  left  ourselves  room  for  some  very- 
agreeable  dreams,  which  we  meant  to  have  taken  between  these 
our  gallant  and  imaginative  sheets.  They  must  be  interrupted, 
as  they  are  apt  to  be,  like  the  young  lady's  in  the  Adventures  of  a 
Lapdog,  who  blushing  divinely,  had  just  uttered  the  words,  "  My 
Lord,  1  am  wholly  yours,"  when  she  was  awaked  by  the  jump 
lug  up  of  that  officious  little  puppy. 

30 


104  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap  lviii. 


CHAPTER  LVIII. 

A  Human  Animal,  and  the  other  Extreme. 

We  met  the  other  day  with  the  following  description  of  an 
animal  of  quality  in  a  Biographical  Dictionary  that  was  pub- 
lished in  the  year  1767,  and  which  is  one  of  the  most  amusing 
and  spirited  publications  of  the  kind  that  we  remember  to  have 
seen.  The  writer  does  not  give  his  authority  for  this  particular 
memoir,  so  that  it  was  probably  furnished  from  his  own  know, 
ledge  ;  but  that  the  account  is  a  true  one  is  evident.  Indeed, 
with  the  exception  of  one  or  two  eccentricities  of  prudence,  which 
rather  lean  to  the  side  of  an  excess  of  instinct,  it  is  but  an  indi- 
vidual description,  referring  to  a  numerous  class  of  the  same 
nature,  that  once  flourished  with  horn  and  hound  in  this  country, 
and  specimens  of  which  are  to  be  found  here  and  there  still.* 
The  title  we  have  put  at  the  head  of  it  is  not  quite  correct  and 
exclusive  enough  as  a  definition ;  since,  properly  speaking,  we 
lords  of  the  creation  are  all  human  animals  ;  but  the  mere  animal, 
or  bodily  and  breathing  faculty,  is  combined  in  us  more  or  less 
with  intellect  and  sentiment;  and  of  these  refinements  of  the 
perception,  few  bipeds  that  have  arrived  at  the  dignity  of  a  coat 
and  boots,  have  partaken  so  little  as  the  noble  squire  before  us. 
How  far  some  of  us,  who  take  ourselves  for  very  rational  per- 
sons, do  or  do  not  go  beyond  him,  we  shall  perhaps  see  in  the 
course  of  our  remarks. 

"  The  Honorable  William  Hastings,  a  gentleman  of  a  very 
singular  character,"  says  our  informant,  "  lived  in  the  year  1638, 
and  by  his  quality  was  son,  brother,  and   uncle  to  the  Earls  of 

*  Since  writing  this,  we  have  discovered  that  the  original  is  in  Hutchins's 
History  of  Dorsetshire.  See  Gilpin's  Forest  Scimcry  or  Drake's  Sfia/c- 
speare  and  his  Timet.  It  is  said  to  have  been  written  by  the  first  Earl  of 
Shaftesbury 


CHAP.  Lviii.]  A  HUMAN  ANIMAL.  lOS 

Huntingdon.  He  was  peradventure  an  original  in  our  age,  or 
rather  the  copy  of  our  ancient  nobility,  in  hunting,  not  in  war- 
like times. 

"He  was  very  low,  very  strong,  and  very  active,  of  a  reddish 
flaxen  hair;  his  clothes  green  cloth,  and  never  all  worth,  when 
new,  five  pounds, 

"  His  house  was  perfectly  of  the  old  fashion,  in  the  midst  of  a 
large  park  well  stocked  with  deer,  and  near  the  house  rabbits  to 
serve  his  kitchen  ;  many  fish-ponds ;  great  store  of  wood  and 
timber  ;  a  bowling-green  in  it,  long  but  narrow,  and  full  of  high 
ridges,  it  being  never  levelled  since  it  was  plowed ;  they  used 
round  sand  bowls ;  and  it  had  a  banquetting  house  like  a  stand, 
a  large  one  built  in  a  tree. 

"  He  kept  all  manner  of  sport  hounds,  that  run  buck,  fox, 
hare,  otter,  and  badger;  and  hawks,  long  and  short-winged.  He 
had  all  sorts  of  nets  for  fish  ;  he  had  a  walk  in  the  New  Forest ; 
and  in  the  manor  of  Christ  Church  :  this  last  supplied  him  with 
red  deer,  sea  and  river  fish.  And  indeed  all  his  neighbors' 
grounds  and  royalties  were  free  to  him;  who  bestowed  all  his 
time  on  these  sports,  but  what  he  borrowed  to  caress  his  neigh- 
bors' wives  and  daughters ;  there  being  not  a  woman,  in  all 
his  walks,  of  the  degree  of  a  yeoman's  wife,  and  under  the  age 
of  forty,  but  it  was  extremely  her  fault,  if  he  was  not  intimately 
acquainted  with  her.  This  made  him  very  popular;  always 
speaking  kindly  to  the  husband,  brother,  or  fa*her,  who  was  to 
boot  very  welcome  to  his  house  whenever  he  came. 

"  There  he  found  beef,  pudding,  and  small  beer  in  great  plenty  , 
a  house  not  so  neatly  kept  as  to  shame  him  or  his  dusty  shoes; 
the  great  hall  strewed  with  marrow- bones,  full  of  hawks,  perches, 
hounds,  spaniels,  and  terriers;  the  upper  side  of  the  hall  hung 
witli  the  fox-skins  of  this  and  the  last  year's  killing ;  here  and 
there  a  pole-cat  intermixed  ;  game-keepers'  and  hunters'  poles 
in  great  abundance. 

"  'J'he  parlor  was  a  great  room  as  prf)p(rly  furnished.  On 
a  great  hearth,  paved  with  brick,  lay  some  terriers,  and  the 
choicest  hounds  and  spaniels.  Seldom  but  two  of  the  great 
chairs  liad  litters  of  young  cats  in  them,  which  were  not  to  be 
disturbed ;    he    having   always   three   or  four  attending  him  at 


106  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,   lviii. 

dinner,  and  a  little  white  round  stick  of  fourteen  inches  long 
lying  by  his  trencher,  that  he  might  defend  such  meat  as  he  had 
no  mind  to  part  with  to  them. 

"  The  windows,  which  were  very  large,  served  for  places  to 
lay  his  arrows,  cross-bows,  stone-bows,  and  other  such-like 
accoutrements.  The  corners  of  the  room,  full  of  the  best  chose 
hunting  and  hawking-poles.  An  oyster-table  at  the  lower  end  ; 
which  was  of  constant  use,  twice  a  day,  all  the  year  round. 
For  he  never  failed  to  eat  oysters,  before  dinner  and  supper, 
through  all  seasons ;  the  neighboring  town  of  Pool  supplied  him 
with  them. 

"  The  upper  part  of  the  room  had  two  small  tables  and  a  desk, 
on  the  one  side  of  which  was  a  Church  Bible,  and,  on  the  other, 
the  Book  of  Martyrs.  On  the  tables  were  hawks-hoods,  bells, 
and  such  like  ;  two  or  three  old  green  hats,  with  their  crowns 
thrust  in,  so  as  to  hold  ten  or  a  dozen  eggs,  which  were  of  a 
pheasant  kind  of  poultry  which  he  took  much  care  of,  and  fed 
himself.  In  the  whole  of  the  desk  were  store  of  tobacco-pipes 
that  had  been  used. 

"  On  one  side  of  this  end  of  the  room  was  the  door  of  a  closet, 
wherein  stood  the  strong  beer  and  the  wine,  which  never  came 
thence  but  in  single  glasses,  that  being  the  rule  of  the  house 
exactly  observed.  For  he  never  exceeded  in  drink  or  per- 
mitted it. 

"  On  the  other  side  was  the  door  into  an  old  chapel,  not  used 
for  devotion.  The  pulpit,  as  the  safest  place,  was  never  want- 
ing of  a  cold  chine  of  beef,  venison  pasty,  gammon  of  bacon,  or 
great  apple-pie,  with  thick  crust  extremely  baked.  His  table 
cost  him  not  much,  though  it  was  good  to  eat  at. 

"  His  sports  supplied  all  but  beef  and  mutton  ;  except  Fridays, 
when  he  had  the  best  of  salt  fish  (as  well  as  other  fish)  he  could 
get ;  and  was  the  day  his  neighbors  of  best  quality  most  visited 
him.  He  never  wanted  a  London  pudding,  and  always  sung  it 
in  with  '  My  pearl  lies  therein-a.'  He  drank  a  glass  or  two  of 
wine  at  meals  ;  very  often  syrup  of  gilliflowers  in  his  sack  ;  and 
had  always  a  tun  glass  without  feet,  stood  by  him,  holding  a  pint 
of  small  beer,  which  he  often  stirred  with  rosemary. 


CHAP.  Lviii.]  A  HUMAN  ANIMAL.  107 

"  He  was  well  natured,  but  soon  angry ;  calling  his  servants 
bastards  and  cuckoldy  knaves  ;  in  one  of  which  he  often  spoke 
truth  to  his  own  knowledge,  and  sometimes  in  both,  though  of  the 
same  man.  He  lived  to  be  an  hundred ;  never  lost  his  eye- 
sight, but  always  wrote  and  read  without  spectacles  ;  and  got 
on  horseback  without  help.  Until  past  four-score,  he  rode  to  the 
death  of  a  stag  as  well  as  any." 

It  is  clear  that  this  worthy  personage  was  nothing  more  than 
a  kind  of  beaver  or  badger  in  human  shape.  We  imagine  him 
haunting  the  neighborhood  in  which  he  lived,  like  a  pet  crea- 
ture who  had  acquired  a  certain  ^Egyptian  godship  among  the 
natives ;  now  hunting  for  his  fish,  now  for  his  flesh,  now  fawning 
after  his  uncouth  fashion  upon  a  pretty  girl,  and  now  snarling 
and  contesting  a  bone  with  his  dogs.  We  imagine  him  the 
animal  principle  personified  ;  a  symbol  on  horseback  ;  a  jolly 
dog  sitting  upright  at  dinner,  like  a  hieroglyphic  on  a  pedestal. 

Butfon  has  a  subtle  answer  to  those  who  argue  for  the  ration- 
ality of  bees.  He  says  that  the  extreme  order  of  their  proceed- 
ings, and  the  undeviating  apparent  forethought  with  which  they 
anticipate  and  provide  for  a  certain  geometrical  necessity  in  a 
part  of  the  structure  of  their  hives,  are  only  additional  proofs  of 
the  force  of  instinct.  They  have  an  instinct  for  the  order,  and 
an  instinct  for  the  anticipation ;  and  they  prove  that  it  is  not  rea- 
son, by  never  striking  out  anything  new.  The  same  thing  is 
observable  in  our  human  animal.  What  would  be  reason  or 
choice  in  another  man,  is  to  be  set  down  in  him  to  poverty  of 
ideas.  If-Tasso  had  been  asked  the  reason  of  his  always  wear- 
ing black,  he  would  probably  have  surprised  the  inquirer  by  a 
series  of  observations  on  color,  and  dignity,  and  melancholy,  and 
the  darkness  of  his  fate  ;  but  if  Petrarch  and  Boccacio  had  dis- 
cussed the  matter  with  him,  he  might  have  changed  it  to  purple 
A  lady,  in  the  same  manner,  wears  black,  because  it  suits  her 
complexion,  or  is  elegant  at  all  times,  or  because  it  is  at  once 
piquant  and  superior.  But  in  spring,  she  may  choose  to  put  on 
the  colors  of  the  season,  and  in  summer  to  be  gaudier  with  the 
butterfly.  Our  squire  had  an  instinct  towards  the  color  of 
green,  because  he  saw  it  about  him.  He  took  it  from  what  he 
livfed  in,  like  a  camel(>on,  and  never  elianged  it,  because  he  could 


108  THE  INDICATOR.  '"chap,  lviii 

live  in  no  other  sphere.  We  see  that  his  green  suit  was  never 
worth  five  pounds ;  and  nothing,  we  dare  say,  could  Iiave 
induced  him  to  let  it  mount  up  to  that  sum.  He  would  have 
had  it  grow  on  him,  if  he  could,  like  a  green  monkey.  Thus 
again  with  his  bowling-green.  It  was  not  penuriousness  tliat 
hindered  him  from  altering  it,  but  he  had  no  more  idea  of  chang- 
ing the  place  than  the  place  itself.  As  change  of  habit  is  fright- 
ful to  some  men,  from  vivacity  of  affection  or  imagination,  and 
the  strangeness  which  they  anticipate  in  the  novelty,  so  Mr. 
Hastings  was  never  tempted  out  of  a  custom,  because  he  had  no 
idea  of  anything  else.  He  would  no  more  think  of  altering  the 
place  he  burrowed  in,  than  a  tortoise  or  a  wild  rabbit.  He  was 
fercB  naturcE, — a  regular  beast  of  prey  ;  though  he  mingled  some- 
thing of  the  generosity  of  the  lion  with  the  lurking  of  the  fox  and 
the  mischievous  sporting  of  the  cat.  He  would  let  other  animals 
feed  with  him,  only  warning  them  off  occasionally  with  that 
switch  of  his,  instead  of  a  claw.  He  had  the  same  liberality  of 
instinct  towards  the  young  of  other  creatures,  as  we  see  in  the 
hen  and  the  goat.  He  would  take  care  of  their  eggs,  if  he  had 
a  mind  ;  or  furnish  them  with  milk.  His  very  body  was 
badger-like.  It  was  "very  low,  very  strong,  and  very  active;" 
and  he  had  a  coarse  fell  of  hair.  A  good  housewife  might  have 
called  his  house  a  kennel,  without  being  abusive.  What  the 
ladies  of  the  Huntingdon  family  thought  of  it,  if  ever  they  came 
to  see  him,  we  do  not  know ;  but  next  to  hearing  such  a  fellow 
as  Squire  Western  talk,  must  have  been  the  horror  of  his  human 
kindred  in  treading  those  menageries,  his  hall  and  pador.  They 
might  turn  the  lines  of  Chaucer  into  an  exclamation  : 

What  hawkis  sitten  on  the  perch  above  ! 
What  houndis  liggen  on  the  floor  adown  ! 

Then  the  marrow-bones,  the  noise,  and,  to  a  delicate  ancle,  the 
sense  of  danger!  Conceive  a  timid  stranger,  not  very  welcome, 
obliged  to  pass  through  the  great  hall.  The  whole  animal 
world  is  up.  The  well-mouthed  hounds  begin  barking,  the  mas- 
tiff bays,  the  terriers  snap,  the  hawks  sidle  and  stare,  the  poultry 
gobble,  the  cats  growl  and  up  with  their  backs.  At  last,  the 
Hastings  makes  his  appearance,  and  laughs  like  a  goblin.     • 


CHAP.  Lvni.]  A  HUMAN  ANIMAL.  H^Q 

Three  things  are  .specially  observable  in  our  hero :  first,  that 
liis  religion  as  well  as  literature  was  so  entirely  confined  to  faith, 
that  it  allowed  him  to  turn  his  household  chapel  into  a  larder, 
and  do  anything  else  he  pleased,  short  of  not  ranking  the  Bible 
and  Book  of  Martyrs  with  his  other  fixtures; — second,  that  he 
carried  his  prudential  instincts  to  a  pitch  unusual  in  a  country 
squire,  who  can  rarely  refrain  from  making  extremes  meet  with 
humanity  in  this  instance  : — and  third,  that  his  proneness  to  tho 
animal  part  of  love,  never  finding  him  in  a  condition  to  be  so 
brutal,  as  drinking  renders  a  gallant  of  this  sort,  left  himself  as 
well  as  others  in  sufficient  good  humor,  not  only  to  get  him  for- 
given by  the  females,  but  to  act  kindly  and  be  tolerated  by  the 
men.  He  was  as  temperate  in  his  liquor  as  one  of  his  cats, 
drinking  only  to  quench  thirst,  and  leaving  off  when  he  had 
enough.  This  perhaps  was  partly  owing  to  his  rank,  which  did 
not  render  it  necessary  to  liis  importance  to  be  emulous  with  his 
bottle  among  the  squires.  As  to  some  grave  questions  connected 
with  the  promiscuous  nature  of  his  amours,  an  animal  so  totally 
given  up  to  his  instincts  as  he  was,  can  hardly  be  held  responsi- 
ble upon  such  points ;  though  they  are  worth  the  consideration 
of  those  who,  in  their  old  age,  undertake  to  be  moral  as  well  as 
profligate.  If  Mr.  Hastings's  notion  was  good  and  even  useful, 
so  far  as  it  showed  the  natural  good-humor  of  that  passion  in 
human  beings,  where  sickness  or  jealousy  is  out  of  the  question, 
in  every  other  respect  it  was  as  poor  and  paltry  as  could  be. 
There  was  not  a  single  idea  in  it  beyond  one  of  his  hounds.  It 
was  entirely  gross  and  superficial,  without  sentiment,  without 
choice,  without  a  thousand  sensations  of  pleasure  and  the  return 
of  it,  without  the  least  perception  of  a  beauty  beyond  the  mere 
ab.sence  of  age.  The  most  idiotical  scold  in  the  village,  "  under 
forty,"  was  to  him  a  desirable  object.  The  most  loveable  woman 
in  the  world  above  it,  was  lost  upon  him.  Such  lovers  do  not 
even  enjoy  the  charms  they  suppose.  They  do  not  sec  a  twen- 
tieth part  of  the  external  graces.  They  criticise  beauty  in  the 
language  of  a  horse-jockey;  and  the  jockey,  or  the  horse  him- 
self, knows  just  as  much  about  it  as  they. 

In  short,  to  be  candid  on  all  sides  with  the  very  earthy  mem- 
ory of  the  Honorable  Mr.  William  Hastings,  we  take  a  person 


:iO  THE  INDICATOR  [chap,  lviii 

of  his  description  to  be  a  good  specimen  of  the  animal  part  of 
the  human  nature,  and  chiefly  on  this  account,  that  the  animal 
preserves  its  health.  There  indeed  it  has  something  to  say  for 
itself;  nor  must  we  conceal  our  belief,  that  upon  this  ground 
alone,  the  Hastings  must  have  had  sensations  in  the  course  of 
his  life,  which  many  an  intellectual  person  might  envy.  His 
perceptions  must  have  been  of  a  vague  sort,  but  they  were  in  all 
probability  exquisitely  clear  and  unalloyed.  He  must  have  had 
all  the  pleasure  from  the  sunshine  and  the  fresh  air,  that  a 
healthy  body  without  a  mind  in  it  can  have ;  and  we  may  guess 
from  the  days  of  childhood,  what  those  feelings  may  resemble. 
in  their  pleasantness,  as  well  as  vagueness.  At  the  age  of  a 
hundred  he  was  able  to  read  and  write  without  spectacles  ;  not 
better  perhaps  than  he  did  at  fifteen,  but  as  well.  At  a  hundred, 
he  was  truly  an  old  boy,  and  no  more  thought  of  putting  on 
spectacles  than  an  eagle.  Why  should  he?  His  blood  had  run 
clear  for  a  century  with  exercise  and  natural  living.  He  had 
not  baked  it  black  and  "  heavy  thick  "  over  a  fire,  nor  dimmed 
the  windows  of  his  perception  with  the  smoke. 

But  he  wanted  a  soul  to  turn  his  perceptions  to  their  proper 
account? — He  did  so.  Let  us  then,  who  see  more  than  he  did, 
contrive  to  see  fair  play  between  body  and  mind.  It  is  by  ob- 
serving the  separate  extremes  of  perfection,  to  which  body  and 
mind  may  arrive,  in  those  who  do  not  now  know  how  to  unite 
both,  that  we  may  learn  how  to  produce  a  human  being  more 
enviable  than  even  the  healthiest  of  foxhunters,  or  the  most  un- 
earthly of  saints.  It  is  remarkable,  that  the  same  ancient  family, 
which,  among  the  variety  and  fineness  of  its  productions,  put 
forth  this  specimen  of  bodily  humanity,  edified  the  world  not 
long  after  with  as  complete  a  specimen  of  the  other  half  of  hu- 
man nature.  Mr.  William  Hastings'  soul  seems  to  have  come 
too  late  for  his  body,  and  to  have  remained  afterwards  upon 
earth  in  the  shape  of  his  fair  kinswoman,  the  Lady  Elizabeth 
Hastings,  daughter  of  Thoophilus,  seventh  Earl  of  Huntingdon. 
An  account  of  her  follows  that  of  her  animal  kinsman,  and  is  a 
most  extraordinary  contrast.  This  is  the  lady  who  is  celebrated 
by  Sir  Richard  Steele  in  the  Taller,  under  the  name  of  Aspasia, 
— a  title  which  must  have   startled   her  a  little.     But  with   the 


CHAP.  i.viii.]  A  HUMAN  ANIMAL.  Ill 

elegance  of  the  panegyric  she  would  have  found  it  hard  not  to 
be  pleased,  notwithstanding  her  modesty.  "  These  ancients 
would  be  as  much  astonished  to  see  in  the  same  age  so  illustri- 
ous a  pattern  to  all  who  love  things  praiseworthy,  as  the  divine 
Aspasia.  Methinks  I  now  see  her  walking  in  her  garden  like 
our  first  parent,  with  unaffected  charms,  before  beauty  had  spec- 
tators, and  bearing  celestial,  conscious  virtue  in  her  aspect. 
Her  countenance  is  the  lively  picture  of  her  mind,  which  is  the 
seat  of  honor,  truth,  compassion,  knowledge,  and  innocence : — 

'  There  dwells  the  scorn  of  vice  and  pity  too.' 

"  In  the  midst  of  the  most  ample  fortune,  and  veneration  of 
all  that  beheld  and  knew  her,  without  the  least  affectation,  she 
consults  retirement,  the  contemplation  of  her  own  being,  and 
that  supreme  power  which  bestowed  it.  Without  the  learning 
of  schools,  or  knowledge  of  a  long  course  of  arguments,  she  goes 
on  in  a  steady  course  of  virtue,  and  adds  to  the  severity  of  the 
last  age  all  the  freedom  and  ease  of  the  present.  The  language 
and  mien  of  a  court  she  is  possessed  of  in  the  highest  degree  ; 
but  the  simplicity  and  humble  thoughts  of  a  cottage  are  her 
more  welcome  entertainment.  Aspasia  is  a  female  philosopher, 
who  does  not  only  live  up  to  the  resignation  of  the  most  retired 
lives  of  the  ancient  sages,  but  also  the  schemes  and  plans  which 
they  thought  beautiful,  though  inimitable.  This  lady  is  the 
most  exact  economist,  without  appearing  busy  ;  the  most  strictly 
virtuous,  without  tasting  the  praise  of  it ;  and  shuns  applause 
with  as  much  indu.stry  as  others  do  reproach.  This  character 
is  so  particular,  that  it  will  be  very  easily  fixed  on  her  only,  by 
all  that  know  her,  but  I  dare  say  she  will  be  the  last  to  find  it 
out.''— TatUr,  No.  XLii.,  July  16,  1709. 

This  character  was  written  when  Lady  Elizabeth  was  twenty- 
eight.*  She  passed  the  rest  of  her  life  agreeably  to  it,  reliev- 
ing families,  giving  annuities,  contributing  to  the  maintenance 


•It  is  attributed  by  the  annotators  to  Congreve, — I  know  not  on  what  au- 
thority. If  I  know  anything  of  style,  I  can  swear  it  was  Steele's.  The 
moral  elegance  and  faith  of  it,  and  the  turn  of  tlie  words,  are  all  his 


.l'^  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  lvih 

of  schools  and  university-scholars,  and  all  the  while  behaving 
with  extraordinary  generosity  to  her  kindred,  and  keeping  up  a 
noble  establishment.  Those  whom  such  a  description  incites  to 
know  more  of  her,  will  find  a  good  summary  of  her  way  of  life 
in  Miss  Hays'  Female  Biography, — a  work,  by  the  way,  which 
contrives  to  be  at  once  conventional  and  liberal,  and  ought  to 
be  in  possession  of  all  her  countrywomen. 

Miss  Hays  informs  us,  that  the  close  of  this  excellent  person's 
life  was  as  sutfering  as  it  was  patient.  An  accidental  contu- 
sion in  her  bosom,  at  an  early  period  of  life,  had  left  the  seeds 
of  a  cancer,  which  for  many  years  she  disregarded.  About  a 
year  and  a  half  before  her  death  she  was  obliged  to  undergo  an 
amputation  of  the  part  affected,  which  she  did  with  a  noble  and 
sweet  fortitude,  described  in  a  very  touching  manner  by  another 
of  her  biographers.  "  Her  ladyship."  he  tells  us,  "  underwent 
this  painful  operation  with  surprising  patience  and  resolution  ; 
she  showed  no  reluctancy,  no  struggle  or  contention  ;  only, 
indeed,  towards  the  end  of  the  operation  she  dreio  such  a  sigh 
as  any  compassionate  reader  may  when  he  hears  this."  This 
is  one  of  the  truest  and  most  pathetic  things  we  remember  to 
have  read.  Unfortunately,  the  amputation,  though  it  promised 
well  for  a  time,  did  no  good  at  last.  The  disorder  returned 
with  greater  malignity,  and  after  submitting  to  it  with  her 
usual  patience,  and  exhorting  her  household  and  friends,  upon 
her  death-bed,  in  a  high  strain  of  enthusiasm,  she  expired  on 
the  22d  of  December,  1739,  in  the  fifty-seventh  year  of  her 
age.  "  Her  character  in  miniature,"  says  the  biographer  just 
quoted,  "  is  this.  She  was  a  lady  of  the  exactest  breeding,  of 
fine  intellectual  endowments,  filled  with  divine  wisdom,  renewed 
in  the  spirit  of  her  mind,  fired  with  the  love  of  her  Creator, 
a  friend  to  all  the  world,  mortified  in  soul  and  body,  and  to 
everything  that  is  earthly,  and  a  little  lower  than  the  angels." 
He  has  a  mysterious  anecdote  of  her  in  the  course  of  his  ac- 
count. "  The  following  remarkable  circumstance  happened  to 
her  in  her  youth.  A  young  lady,  of  less  severity  of  manners 
than  herself,  invited  her  once  to  an  entertainment  over  a  ro- 
mance, and  very  dear  did  she  pay  for  it  ;  what  evil  tinctures 
she  took  from  it  I  cannot  toll,  but  this  I  can,  that  the  remem- 


CHAP.  Lviii.]  A  HUMAN  ANIMAL.  113 

brance  of  it  would  now  and  then  annoy  her  spirit  down  into  da- 
dining  life."  Miss  Hays  concludes  the  memoir  in  the  Female 
Biography  with  informing  us,  that  "  she  was  fond  of  her  pen, 
and  frequently  employed  herself  in  writing  ;  but,  previous  to 
her  death,  destroyed  the  greater  part  of  her  papers.  Her  for- 
tune, beauty,  and  amiable  qualities,  procured  her  many  soli- 
citations to  change  her  state ;  but  she  preferred,  in  a  single  and 
independent  life,  to  be  mistress  of  her  actions  and  the  disposition 
of  her  income." 

It  seems  pretty  clear  from  all  these  accounts,  that  this  noble- 
hearted  woman,  notwithstanding  her  beauty  and  sweet  temper, 
was  as  imperfect  a  specimen  of  animal  humanity  as  her  kins- 
man was  of  spiritual.  We  are  far  from  meaning  to  prefer  his 
state  of  existence.  We  confess  that  there  are  many  persons  we 
have  read  of,  whom  we  would  rather  have  been,  than  the  most 
saintly  of  solitary  spirits ;  but  the  mere  reflection  of  the  good 
which  Lady  Elizabeth  did  to  others,  would  not  allow  us  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation,  if  compelled  to  choose  between  inhabiting  her 
infirm  tenement  and  the  jolly  vacuity  of  Honorable  William. 
At  the  same  time,  it  is  evident  tliat  the  fair  saint  neglected  the 
earthly  part  of  herself  in  a  way  neither  as  happy-making  nor 
as  pious  as  she  took  it  for.  Perhaps  the  example  of  her  kins- 
man tended  to  assist  this  false  idea  of  what  is  pleasing  to  heaven, 
and  made  her  a  little  too  peremptory  against  herself;  but  what 
had  not  her  lovers  a  right  to  say  ?  For  our  parts,  had  we  lived 
then,  and  been  at  all  fitted  to  aspire  to  a  return  of  her  regard, 
we  should  have  thought  it  a  very  unfair  and  intolerable  thing 
of  her  to  go  on  doing  the  most  exquisite  and  seducing  actions  in 
the  world,  and  tell  us  that  she  wished  to  be  mistress  of  her  own 
time  and  generosities.  So  she  might,  and  yet  have  been  gene- 
rous  to  us  as  well  as  to  the  charity  boys.  But  setting  this  aside 
(and  the  real  secret  is  to  be  found,  perhaps,  in  matters  into  which 
we  cannot  inquire),  a  proper  attention  to  that  beauteous  form 
which  her  spirit  inhabited  might  have  done  great  good  to  her- 
self. Slie  not  only  lived  nearly  half  a  century  less  than  her 
kinsman,  and  thus  shortened  a  useful  life,  but  the  less  healthy 
state  of  her  blood  rendered  even  a  soul  like  hers  liable  to  in. 
cursions  of  melancholy  to  the  last  niorrK^nt  of  her  existence.     If 


114  THE  INDICATOR  [chap    lviii 

it  be  said  that  this  stimulated  lier  the  more  to  extract  happiness 
out  of  the  happiness  of  others,  we  do  not  deny  that  it  may  have 
done  so;  nor  do  we  pretend  to  say  that  this  might  not  have  been 
the  best  state  of  existence  for  herself  and  all  of  us,  if  we  could 
inquire  into  matters  hidden  from  our  sight.  But  upon  that  prin- 
ciple, so  might  her  relation's.  It  is  impossible  to  argue  to  any 
purpose  upon  these  assumptions,  which  are  only  good  for  pa- 
tience, not  for  action.  William  Hastings  was  all  bodily  comfort ; 
Elizabeth  Hastings  was  all  mental  grace.  How  far  the  liability 
of  the  former  to  gusts  of  passion,  as  well  as  the  other  conditions 
of  his  being,  settled  the  balance  with  her  necessity  for  being  pa- 
tient, it  is  impossible  to  say  ;  but  it  is  easy  and  right  to  say,  that 
nobody  would  like  to  undergo  operations  for  a  cancer,  or  to  die 
at  fifty-seven,  when  they  could  live  healthily  to  a  hundred. 

"What,  then,  is  our  conclusion?  This:  that  the  proper  point 
of  humanity  lies  between  the  two  natures,  though  not  at  equal 
distances;  the  greatest  possible  sum  of  happiness  for  mankind 
demanding  that  great  part  of  our  pleasure  should  be  founded  in 
tliat  of  others.  Those,  however,  who  hold  rigid  theories  of  mo- 
rality and  yet  practise  them  not  (which  is  much  oftener  the  case 
with  such  theories  than  the  reverse),  must  take  care  how  they 
flatter  themselves  they  resemble  Lady  Elizabeth.  Their  ex- 
treme difference  with  her  kinsman  is  a  mere  cant,  to  which  all 
the  privileged  selfishness  and  sensuality  in  the  world  give  the 
lie — all  the  pomps  and  vanities,  all  the  hatred,  all  the  maligni- 
ties, all  the  eatings  and  drinkings,  such  as  William  Hastings 
himself  would  have  been  ashamed  of.  In  fact,  their  real  in- 
stincts are  generally  as  selfish  as  his,  though  in  other  shapes, 
and  much  less  agreeable  for  everybody.  When  cant  lives  as 
long  and  healthy  a  life  as  his,  or  as  good  a  one  as  hers,  it  will 
be  worth  attending  to  Till  then,  the  best  thing  to  advise  is, 
neither  to  be  canting,  nor  merely  animal,  nor  over-spiritual  ;  but 
to  endeavor  to  enjoy,  with  the  greatest  possible  distribution  o) 
happiness,  all  the  faculties  we  receive  from  nature. 


CHAP.  Lix.]  RETURN  OF  AUTUMN.  U5 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

Return  of  Autumn. 

The  autumn  is  now  confirmed.  The  harvest  is  over  ;  the  sum- 
mer birds  are  gone  or  going  ;  heavy  rains  have  swept  the  air 
of  its  warmth,  and  prepared  the  earth  for  the  impressions  of 
winter. 

And  the  author's  season  changes  likewise.  We  can  no  Ion- 
ger  persuade  ourselves  that  it  is  summer,  by  dint  of  resolving 
to  think  so.  We  cannot  warm  ourselves  at  the  look  of  the  sun- 
shine. Instead  of  sitting  at  the  window,  "  hindering"  ourselves, 
as  people  say,  with  enjoying  the  sight  of  Nature,  we  find  our 
knees  turned  round  to  the  fire-place,  our  face  opposite  a  pictured 
Instead  of  a  real  landscape,  and  our  feet  toasting  upon  a  fender. 

When  some  enjoyments  go,  others  come.  The  boys  will  now 
be  gathering  their  nuts.  The  trees  will  put  forth,  in  their  bravely 
dying  leaves,  all  the  colors  of  heaven  and  earth,  which  they 
have  received  from  sun,  and  rain,  and  soil.  Nature,  in  her 
heaps  of  grain  and  berries,  will  set  before  the  animal  creation 
as  profuse  and  luxurious  a  feast,  as  any  of  our  lordly  palates 
have  received  from  dish  and  dessert. 

Nature,  with  the  help  of  a  very  little  art,  can  put  forth  a  pret- 
tier bill  of  fare  than  most  persons,  if  people  will  but  persuade 
each  other  that  cheapness  is  as  good  as  dearness ; — a  discovery, 
we  think,  to  which  the  tax-gatherer  might "lielp  us.  Let  us  see 
what  she  says  this  autumn.  Imagine  us  seated  at  the  bar  of 
some  fasliionahie  retreat,  or  boxed  in  a  sylvan  scene  of  conside- 
rable resort.  Enter,  a  waiter,  the  September  of  Spencer — that 
ingenious  and  (to  a  punster)  oddly-dressed  rogue,  of  whom  we 
are  told,  that  when  he  appeared  before  the  poet,  he  was 

Heavy  laden  with  the  spoil 
Of  harvest's  riches,  which  he  made  his  boot. 
31 


116  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  wx 

At  present,  he  assumes  a  more  modest  aspect,  with  a  bunch  of 
ash-leaves  under  his  arm  by  way  of  duster.  He  bows  like  a 
poplar,  draws  a  west  wind  through  his  teeth  genteelly,  and  lays 
before  us  the  following  bill  of  entertainment : — 

Fish,  infinite  and  cheap. 

Fruit,  ditto. 

Nuts,  ditto. 

Bread,  ditto — taxed. 

Fresh  airs,  taxed  if  in  doors — not  out. 

Light,  the  same. 

Wine  in  its  unadulterated  shape,  as  grapes,  or  sunshine,  or 
well-fermented  blood. 

Arbors  of  ivy,  wild  honeysuckle,  arbutus,  &c.,  all  in  flower. 

Other  flowers  on  table. 

The  ante-room,  with  a  view  into  it,  immense  with  a  sky-blue 
cupola,  and  hung  round  with  landscapes  confessedly  inimitable. 

Towards  the  conclusion,  a  vocal  concert  among  the  trees. 

At  night,  falling  stars,  and  a  striking  panoramic  view  of  the 
heavens  ;  on  which  occasion,  for  a  few  nights  only,  the  same 
moon  will  be  introduced  that  was  admired  by  the  "  immortal 
Shakspeare ! ! !" 

N.  B. — It  is  reported  by  some  malignant  persons,  that  the 
bird-concert  is  not  artificial :  whereas  it  will  be  found,  upon  the 
smallest  inspection,  to  beat  even  the  most  elaborate  inventions 
of  the  justly  admired  Signer  Mecanical  Fello. 


«HAP.  Lx.]  THE  MAID-SERVANT.  117 


CHAPTER  LX. 

The  Maid-Servant* 

Must  be  considered  as  young,  or  else  she  has  married  the 
butcher,  the  butler,  or  her  cousin,  or  has  otherwise  settled  into  a 
character  distinct  from  her  original  one,  so  as  to  become  what 
is  properly  called  the  domestic.  The  Maid-Servant,  in  her  ap- 
parel, is  either  slovenly  and  fine  by  turns,  and  dirty  always  ;  or 
she  is  at  all  times  neat  and  tight,  and  dressed  according  to  her 
station.  In  the  latter  case,  her  ordinary  dress  is  blacli  stockings, 
a  stuff  gown,  a  cap,  and  a  neck-handkerchief  pinned  corner- 
wise  behind.  If  you  want  a  pin,  she  feels  about  her,  and  has 
always  one  to  give  you.  On  Sundays  and  holidays,  and  per- 
haps of  afternoons,  she  changes  her  black  stockings  for  white, 
puts  on  a  gown  of  a  better  texture  and  fine  pattern,  sets  her  cap 
and  her  curls  jauntily,  and  lays  aside  the  neck-handkerchief  for 
a  high-body,  which,  by  the  way,  is  not  half  so  pretty. 

The  general  furniture  of  her  ordinary  room,  the  kitchen,  is  not 
so  much  her  own  as  her  master's  and  mistress's,  and  need  not  be 
described  :  but  in  a  drawer  of  the  dresser  or  the  table,  in  company 
with  a  duster  and  a  pair  of  snuffers,  may  be  found  some  of  her  pro- 
perty, such  as  a  brass  thimble,  a  pair  of  scissors,  a  thread-case,  a 
piece  of  wax  candle  much  wrinkled  with  the  thread,  an  odd 
volume  of  Pamela,  and  perhaps  a  sixpenny  play,  such  as  George 
Barnwell  or  Southerne's  Oroonoko.  There  is  a  piece  of  look- 
ing-glass in  the  window.  The  rest  of  her  furniture  is  in  the 
garret,  where  you  may  find  a  good  looking-glass  on  the  table  ; 
and  in  the  window  a  Bible,  a  comb  and  a  piece  of  soap.  ITrro 
stands  also,  under  stout  lock  and   key,  the  mighty  mystery, — 

•  In  some  respects,  particularly  of  costume,  this  portrait  must  bo  under 
stood  of  originals  existing  twenty  or  thirty  years  ago 


us  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  lx 

the  box, — containing,  among  other  things,  her  clothes,  two  or 
three  song-books,  consisting  of  nineteen  for  the  penny  ;  sundry- 
Tragedies  at  a  halfpenny  the  sheet ;  the  Whole  Nature  of 
Dreams  Laid  Open,  together  with  the  Fortune-teller  and  the 
Accounts  of  the  Ghost  of  Mrs.  Veal ;  the  Story  of  the  Beauti- 
ful Zoa  "  who  was  cast  away  on  a  desert  island,  showing  how," 
&c.  ;  some  half-crowns  in  a  purse,  including  pieces  of  country- 
money  ;  a  silver  penny  wrapped  up  in  cotton  by  itself,  a  crooked 
sixpence,  given  her  before  she  came  to  town,  and  the  giver  of 
which  has  either  forgotten  or  been  forgotten  by  her,  she  is  not 
sure  which  ; — two  little  enamel  boxes,  with  looking-glass  in  the 
lids,  one  of  them  a  fairing,  the  other  "  a  Trifle  from  Margate  ;" 
and  lastly,  various  letters,  square  and  ragged,  and  directed  in 
all  sorts  of  spellings,  chiefly  with  little  letters  for  capitals.  One 
of  them,  written  by  a  girl  who  went  to  a  day-school,  is  directed 
"  Miss." 

In  her  manners,  the  Maid-servant  sometimes  imitates  her  young 
mistress  ;  she  puts  her  hair  in  papers,  cultivates  a  shape,  and 
occasionally  contrives  to  be  out  of  spirits.  But  her  own  cha- 
racter  and  condition  overcome  all  sophistications  of  this  sort ; 
her  shape,  fortified  by  the  mop  and  scrubbmg-brush,  will  make 
its  way  ;  and  exercise  keeps  her  healthy  and  cheerful.  From 
the  same  cause  her  temper  is  good  ;  though  she  gets  into  little 
heats  when  a  stranger  is  over  saucy,  or  when  she  is  told  not  to 
go  so  heavily  down  stairs,  or  when  some  unthinking  person  goes 
up  her  wet  stairs  with  dirty  shoes, — or  when  she  is  called  away 
often  from  dinner  ;  neither  does  she  much  like  to  be  seen  scrub- 
bing  the  street-door  steps  of  a  morning  ;  and  sometimes  she 
catches  herself  saying,  "Drat  that  butcher,"  but  immediately 
adds,  "  God  forgive  me."  The  tradesmen  indeed,  with  their 
compliments  and  arch  looks,  seldom  give  her  cause  to  complain. 
The  milkman  bespeaks  her  good-humor  for  the  day  with  "Come, 
pretty  maids  :" — then  follow  the  butcher,  the  baker,  the  oilman, 
&c.,  all  with  their  several  smirks  and  little  loiterings;  and  when 
she  goes  to  the  shops  herself,  it  is  for  her  the  grocer  pulls  down 
his  string  from  its  roller  with  more  than  ordinary  whirl,  and 
tosses  his  parcel  into  a  tie. 

Thus  pass  the  mornings  between  working,  and  singing,  and 


VHAP.  Lx.]  THE  MAID  SERVANT.  ll'.i 

giggling,  and  grumbling,  and  being  flattered.  If  she  takes  any 
pleasure  unconnected  with  her  office  before  the  afternoon,  it  is 
when  she  runs  up  the  area-steps  or  to  the  door  to  hear  and  pur- 
chase a  new  song,  or  to  see  a  troop  of  soldiers  go  by  ;  or  when 
she  happens  to  thrust  her  head  out  of  a  chamber  window  at  the 
same  time  with  a  servant  at  the  next  house,  when  a  dialogue  in- 
fallibly ensues,  stimulated  by  the  imaginary  obstacles  between. 
If  the  Maid-servant  is  wise,  the  best  part  of  her  work  is  done 
by  dinner-time  ;  and  nothing  else  is  necessary  to  give  perfect 
zest  to  the  meal.  She  tells  us  what  she  thinks  of  it,  when  she 
calls  it  "  a  bit  o'  dinner."  There  is  the  same  sort  of  eloquence 
in  her  other  phrase,  "a  cup  o'  tea  ;"  but  the  old  ones,  and  the 
washerwomen,  beat  her  at  that.  After  tea  in  great  houses,  she 
goes  with  the  other  servants  to  hot  cockles,  or  What-are-my- 
thouglits-like,  and  tells  Mr.  John  to  "  have  done  then  ;"  or  if 
there  is  a  ball  given  that  night,  they  throw  open  the  doors,  and 
make  use  of  the  music  up  stairs  to  dance  by.  In  smaller  houses, 
she  receives  the  visits  of  her  aforesaid  cousin  ;  and  sits  down 
alone,  or  with  a  fellow  maid-servant,  to  work  ;  talks  of  her 
young  master  or  mistress  and  Mr.  Irvins  (Evans) ;  or  else  she 
calls  to  mind  her  own  friends  in  the  country  ;  where  she  thinks 
the  cows  and  "  all  that"  beautiful,  now  she  is  away.  Mean- 
while, if  she  is  lazy,  she  snutTs  the  candle  with  her  scissors  ;  or 
if  she  has  eaten  more  heartily  than  usual,  she  sighs  double  the 
usual  number  of  times,  and  thinks  that  tender  hearts  were  born 
to  be  unhappy. 

Such  being  the  Maid-servant's  life  in-doors,  she  scorns,  when 
abroad,  to  be  anything  but  a  creature  of  sheer  enjoyment.  The 
Maid-servant,  the  sailor,  and  the  school-boy,  are  the  three  beings 
that  enjoy  a  holiday  beyond  all  the  rest  of  the  world  ; — and  all 
for  the  same  reason. — because  their  inexperience,  peculiarity 
of  life,  and  habit  of  being  with  persons  of  circumstances  or 
thoughts  above  them,  give  them  all,  in  their  way,  a  cast  of  the 
romantic.  The  most  active  of  the  money-getters  is  a  vegetable 
compared  with  them.  The  Maid-servant,  when  she  first  goes  to 
Vauxhall,  thinks  she  is  in  heaven.  A  theatre  is  all  pleasure  to 
her,  whatever  is  going  forward,  whether  the  play  or  the  music,  or 
the  waiting  which  makes  others  impatient,  or  the  munching  of 

.31* 


120  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  lx 

apples  and  gingerbread,  which  she  and  her  party  commence 
almost  as  soon  as  they  have  seated  themselves.  She  prefers 
tragedy  to  comedy,  because  it  is  grander,  and  less  like  what  she 
meets  with  in  general  ;  and  because  she  thinks  it  more  in  earn- 
est also,  especially  in  the  love-scenes.  Her  favorite  play  is 
"  Alexander  the  Great,  or  the  Rival  Queens."  Another  great 
delight  is  in  going  a  shopping.  She  loves  to  look  at  the  patterns 
in  the  windows,  and  the  fine  things  labelled  with  those  corpulent 
numerals  of  "only  7s." — "only  6s.  6d."  She  has  also,  unless 
born  and  bred  in  London,  been  to  see  my  Lord  Mayor,  the  fine 
people  coming  out  of  Court,  and  the  "  beasties"  in  the  Tower ; 
and  at  all  events  she  has  been  to  Astley's  and  the  Circus,  from 
which  she  comes  away,  equally  smitten  with  the  rider,  and  sore 
■with  laughing  at  the  clown.  But  it  is  difficult  to  say  what 
pleasure  she  enjoys  most.  One  of  the  completest  of  all  is  the 
fair,  where  she  walks  through  an  endless  round  of  noise,  and 
toys,  and  gallant  apprentices,  and  wonders.  Here  she  is  in- 
vited in  by  courteous  and  well-dressed  people,  as  if  she  were  the 
mistress.  Here  also  is  the  conjuror's  booth,  where  the  operator 
himself,  a  most  stately  and  genteel  person  all  in  white,  calls  her 
Ma'am  ;  and  says  to  John  by  her  side,  in  spite  of  his  laced  hat, 
"  Be  good  enough,  sir,  to  hand  the  card  to  the  lady." 

Ah  !  may  her  "  cousin  "  turn  out  as  true  as  he  says  he  is  ;  or 
may  she  get  home  soon  enough  and  smiling  enough  to  be  as 
happy  again  next  time. 


CHAP,  txi.]  THE  OLD  LADY.  121 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

The  Old  Lady. 

If  the  old  lady  is  a  widow  and  lives  alone,  the  manners  of  her 
condition  and  time  of  life  are  so  much  the  more  apparent.  She 
generally  dresses  in  plain  silks,  that  make  a  gentle  rustling  as 
she  moves  about  the  silence  of  her  room  ;  and  she  wears  a  nice 
cap  with  a  lace  border,  that  comes  under  the  chin.  In  a  placket 
at  her  side  is  an  old  enamelled  watch,  unless  it  is  locked  up  in  a 
drawer  of  her  toilet,  for  fear  of  accidents.  Her  waist  is 
rather  tight  and  trim  than  otherwise,  and  slie  had  a  fine  one  when 
young  ;  and  she  is  not  sorry  if  you  see  a  pair  of  her  stockings  on 
a  table,  that  you  may  be  aware  of  the  neatness  of  her  leg  and 
foot.  Contented  with  these  and  other  evident  indications  of  a 
good  shape,  and  letting  her  young  friends  understand  that  she 
can  afford  to  obscure  it  a  little,  she  wears  pockets,  and  uses  them 
well  too.  In  the  one  is  her  handkerchief,  and  any  heavier  mat- 
ter that  is  not  likely  to  come  out  with  it,  such  as  the  change  of 
a  sixpence ;  in  the  other  is  a  miscellaneous  assortment,  consist- 
ing of  a  pocket-book,  a  bunch  of  keys,  a  needle-case,  a  spec- 
tacle-case, crumbs  of  biscuit,  a  nutmeg  and  grater,  a  smelling- 
bottle,  and  according  to  the  season,  an  orange  or  apple,  which 
after  many  days  she  draws  out  warm  and  glossy,  to  give  to  some 
little  child  that  has  well-behaved  itself  She  generally  occupies 
two  rooms,  in  the  neatest  condition  possible.  In  the  chamber  is 
a  bed  with  a  white  coverlet,  built  up  high  and  round,  to  look 
well,  and  with  curtains  of  a  pastoral  pattern,  consisting  alter- 
nately of  large  plants,  and  shepherds  and  shepherdesses.  On 
the  mantel- piece  are  more  shepherds  and  shepherdesses,  with 
dot-eyed  sheep  at  their  feet,  all  in  colored  ware  :  tiie  man,  per- 
haps, in  a  pink  jackf^t  and  knots  of  ribbons  at  his  knees  and  shoes, 
holding  his  crook  lightly  in  one  hand,  and  with  the  other  at  his 
{//•east,  turning  his  toes  out  and  looking   tenderly  at  tlio  shep 


122  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  liv. 

herdcss :  the  woman  holding  a  crook  also,  and  modestly  return- 
ing his  look,  with  a  gipsy-hat  jerked  up  behind,  a  very  slender 
waist,  with  petticoat  and  hips  to  counteract,  and  the  petticoat 
pulled  up  through  the  pocket-holes,  in  order  to  show  the  trimness 
of  her  ancles.  But  these  patterns,  of  course,  are  various.  The 
toilet  is  ancient,  carved  at  the  edges,  and  tied  about  with  a  snow 
white  drapery  of  muslin.  Beside  it  are  various  boxes,  mostly 
japan ;  and  the  set  of  drawers  are  exquisite  things  for  a  little 
girl  to  rummage,  if  ever  little  girl  be  so  bold, — containing  rib- 
bons and  laces  of  various  kinds;  linen  smelling  of  lavender,  of 
the  flowers  of  which  there  is  always  dust  in  the  corners  ;  a  heap 
of  pocket-books  for  a  series  of  years;  and  pieces  of  dress  long 
gone  by,  such  as  head  fronts,  stomachers,  and  flowered  satin 
shoes,  with  enormous  heels.  The  stock  of  letters  are  under  es- 
pecial lock  and  key.  So  much  for  the  bed-room.  In  the  sitting 
room  is  rather  a  spare  assortment  of  shining  old  mahogany  fur- 
niture, or  carved  arm-chairs  equally  old,  with  chintz  draperies 
down  to  the  ground  ;  a  folding  or  other  screen,  with  Chinese 
figures,  their  round,  little-eyed,  meek  faces  perking  sideways ; 
a  stuffed  bird,  perhaps  in  a  glass  case  (a  living  one  is  too  much 
for  her)  ;  a  portrait  of  her  husband  over  the  mantel-piece,  in  a 
coat  with  frog-buttons,  and  a  delicate  frilled  hand  lightly  insert- 
ed in  the  waistcoat ;  and  opposite  him  on  the  wall,  is  a  piece  of 
embroidered  literature,  framed  and  glazed,  containing  some 
moral  distich  or  maxim,  worked  in  angular  capital  letters,  with 
two  trees  or  parrots  below,  in  their  proper  colors  ;  the  whole 
concluding  with  an  ABC  and  numerals,  and  the  name  of  the  fair 
industrious,  expressing  it  to  be  "  her  work,  Jan.  14,  1762."  The 
rest  of  the  furniture  consists  of  a  looking-glass  with  carved  edges, 
perhaps  a  settee,  a  hassock  for  the  feet,  a  mat  for  the  little  dog, 
and  a  small  set  of  shelves,  in  which  are  the  Spectator  and  Guar- 
dian^ the  Turkish  Spy,  a  Bible  and  Prayer  Book,  Young's  Night 
Thoughts  with  a  piece  of  lace  in  it  to  flatten,  Mrs.  Rome's  Devout 
Exercises  of  the  Heart,  Mrs.  Glasse's  Cookery  and  perhaps  Sir 
Charles  Grandison,  and  Clarissa.  John  Buncle  is  in  the  closet 
among  the  pickles  and  preserves.  The  clock  is  on  the  landing- 
place  between  the  two  room  doors,  where  it  ticks  audibly  but 
quietly ;  and   the  landing-place  is  carpeted  to  a  nicety.      The 


CHAP.  Lxi.]  THE  OLD  LADY.  123 

house  is  most  in  character,  and  properly  coeval,  if  it  is  in  a  re- 
tired suburb,  and  strongly  built,  with  wainscot  rather  than  papei 
inside,  and  lockers  in  the  windows.  Before  the  windows  should 
be  some  quivering  poplars.  Here  the  Old  Lady  receives  a  few 
quiet  visitors  to  tea,  and  perhaps  an  early  game  at  cards :  or  you 
may  see  her  going  out  on  the  same  kind  of  visit  herself,  with  a 
light  umbrella  running  up  into  a  stick  and  crooked  ivory  handle, 
and  her  little  dog,  equally  famous  for  his  love  to  her  and  cap- 
tious antipathy  to  strangers.  Her  grand-children  dislike  him  on 
holidays,  and  the  boldest  sometimes  ventures  to  give  him  a  sly 
kick  under  the  table.  When  she  returns  at  night,  she  appears, 
if  the  weather  happens  to  be  doubtful,  in  a  calash  ;  and  her  ser- 
vant in  pattens  follows  half  behind  and  half  at  her  side,  with  a 
lantern. 

Her  opinions  are  not  many  nor  new.  She  thinks  the  clergy- 
man a  nice  man.  The  duke  of  Wellington,  in  her  opinion,  is  a 
very  great  man  ;  but  she  has  a  secret  preference  for  the  Marquis 
of  Granby.  She  thinks  the  young  women  of  the  present  day  too 
forward,  and  the  men  not  respectful  enough  ;  but  hopes  her  grand- 
children will  be  better  ;  though  she  differs  with  her  daughter  in 
several  points  respecting  their  management.  She  sets  little 
value  on  the  new  accomplishments ;  is  a  great  though  delicate 
connoisseur  in  butcher's  meat  and  all  sorts  of  housewifery  ;  and 
if  you  mention  waltzes,  expatiates  on  the  grace  and  fine  breeding 
of  the  minuet.  She  longs  to  have  seen  one  danced  by  Sir 
Charles  Grandison,  whom  she  almost  considers  as  a  real  person. 
She  likes  a  walk  of  a  summer's  evening,  but  avoids  the  new 
streets,  canals,  &c.,  and  sometimes  goes  through  the  church- 
yard, where  her  children  and  her  husband  lie  buried,  serious, 
but  not  melancholy.  She  has  had  three  great  epochs  in  her 
life  : — her  marriage — her  having  been  at  court,  to  see  the  King 
and  Queen  and  Royal  Family — and  a  compliment  on  her  figure 
she  once  received,  in  passing,  from  Mr.  Wilkes,  whom  she  des- 
cribes as  a  sad,  loose  man,  but  engaging.  His  plainness  she 
thinks  much  exaggerated.  If  anything  takes  her  at  a  distance 
from  home,  it  is  still  the  court ;  but  she  seldom  stirs,  even  for 
that.  The  last  time  but  one  that  she  went,  was  to  see  the  Duke 
of  Wirtemburg ;  and  most  probably  for  the  last  time  of  all,  to 


124  THE  INDICATOR  [chap.  lxii. 

see  the  Princess  Charlotte  and  Prince  Leopold.  From  this  be- 
atific vision  she  returned  with  the  same  admiration  as  ever  for 
the  fine  comely  appearance  of  the  Duke  of  York  and  the  rest  of 
the  family,  and  great  delight  at  having  had  a  near  view  of  the 
Princess,  whom  she  speaks  of  with  smiling  pomp  and  lifted  mit- 
tens,  clasping  them  as  passionately  as  she  can  together,  and  call- 
ing  her,  in  a  transport  of  mixed  loyalty  and  self-love,  a  fine 
royal  young  creature,  and  "  Daughter  of  England." 


CHAP.  Lxii.]  PULci.  las 


CHAPTER  LXII. 

Pulci. 

We  present  our  readers  with  a  prose  abridgment  of  the  be- 
ginning of  the  Morgante  Maggiore  of  Pulci,  the  father  of  Italian 
romance.  We  would  rather  have  given  it  them  in  verse ;  put 
it  would  have  taken  more  time  and  attention  than  we  can  just 
now  afford.  Besides,  a  prose  specimen  of  this  author  is  a  less 
unjust  one,  than  it  would  be  of  any  of  hi.s  successors;  because 
though  a  real  poet,  he  is  not  so  eminent  as  a  versifier,  and  deals 
less  in  poetical  abstractions.  He  has  less  of  the  oracular  or  voice- 
ful  part  of  his  art,  conversing  almost  exclusively  with  the  social 
feelings  in  their  most  familiar  language. 

Luigi  Pulci,  the  younger  of  three  literary  brothers,  was  born 
the  15th  of  December  (3d.  O.  S.),  1431.  His  family  was  noble, 
and  probably  gave  their  name  to  the  district  of  Monte  Pulciano, 
famous  for  the  supereminence  of  its  wine.  It  was  a  fit  soil  for  him 
to  grow  in.  He  had  an  enviable  lot,  with  nothing  to  interrupt 
his  vivacity  ;  passing  his  life  in  the  shades  of  ease  and  retire- 
ment, and  "  warbling  his  native  wood-notes  wild,"  without  fear 
of  hawks  from  above,  or  lurking  reptiles  from  below.  Among 
his  principal  friends  were  Politian,  Lorenzo  de  Medici,  and  the 
latter's  mother,  Lucrezia  Tornabuona.  He  speaks  affection- 
ately of  her  memory  at  the  close  of  his  work.  At  Lorenzo's  table 
he  was  a  constant  guest ;  and  at  this  table,  where  it  is  pos- 
sible that  the  future  pope,  Leo  the  Tenth,  was  present  as  a  little 
boy,  he  is  said  to  have  read,  as  he  produced  it,  that  remarkable 
poem,  which  the  old  Italian  critics  were  not  agreed  whether  to 
think  pious  or  profane.* 

*  Leo  was  born  in  1475,  forty-four  years  after  the  death  of  Pulci ;  so  that, 
supposing;  the  lattf^r  to  have  arrived  at  anything  like  length  of  days,  he  mav 
have  had  the  young  father  of  the  faithful  for  an  auditor. 


12«  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  lxii. 

The  reader,  at  this  time  of  day,  will  be  inclined  to  think  it  the 
latter ;  nor  will  the  reputation  of  Leo  hinnself,  who  is  said  to  have 
made  use  of  the  word  "fable"  on  a  very  remarkable  occasion, 
be  against  their  verdict.  Undoubtedly  there  was  much  scepti- 
cism  in  those  days,  as  there  always  must  be  where  there  is  great 
vivacity  of  mind,  with  great  demands  upon  its  credulity.  But 
we  must  take  care  how  we  pronounce  upon  the  real  spirit  of 
manners  unlike  our  own,  when  we  consider  the  extraordinary 
mixture  of  reverence  and  familiarity  with  which  the  most  big- 
oted periods  of  Catholicism  have  been  accustomed  to  treat  the 
objects  of  their  faith.  They  elbow  them,  till  they  treat  them 
like  their  earthly  kindred,  expecting  most  from  them,  and  behav- 
ing worse  by  them.  Popish  sailors  have  scourged  the  idols, 
whom  they  have  prayed  to  the  minute  before  for  a  fair  wind. 
The  most  laughable  exposure  of  the  tricks  of  Roman  Catholics 
in  our  own  language  is  by  old  Heywood  the  epigrammatist,  who 
died  abroad  "  in  consequence  of  his  devotion  to  the  Roman 
Catholic  cause." — "  The  bigotry  of  any  age,"  says  Mr.  Hazlitt, 
"  is  by  no  means  a  test  of  its  piety,  or  even  sincerity.  Men  seem- 
ed to  make  themselves  amends  for  the  enormity  of  their  faith  by 
levity  of  feeling,  as  well  as  by  laxity  of  principle;  and  in  the 
indifference  or  ridicule  with  which  they  treated  the  wilful  absurd- 
ities and  extravagances  to  which  they  hoodwinked  their  under- 
standings, almost  resembled  children  playing  at  blindman's  buff, 
who  grope  their  way  in  the  dark,  and  make  blunders  on  purpose 
to  laugh  at  their  idleness  and  folly." — Lectures  on  the  Literature 
of  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  p.  192.  It  may  be  added,  that  they  are 
sometimes  like  children  playing  and  laughing  at  ghosts  in  day- 
light, but  afraid  of  them  at  night  time.  There  have  not  been 
wanting  readers  to  take  all  Pulci's  levity  in  good  religious  part. 
This  does  not  seem  possible  ;  but  it  is  possible  that  he  may  have 
had  a  certain  conventional  faith  in  religion,  or  even  regarded  it 
as  a  sentiment  and  a  general  truth,  while  the  goodness  of  his 
disposition  led  him  to  be  ironical  upon  particular  dogmas.  We 
must  judge  him  in  charity,  giving  him  the  benefit  of  our  doubts. 

The  specimen  now  laid  before  the  reader  is  perhaps  as  good  a 
one,  for  prose,  as  could  have  been  selected.  The  characteristics 
of  our  poet  are  wildness  of  fancy,  pithiness  of  humor,  sprightliness 


fHAP.  LXll.]  PULCI.  127 

of  transition,  and  tenderness  of  heart.  All  these,  if  the  reader 
has  any  congeniality  of  spirit,  he  may  find  successively  in  the 
outset  about  the  giants,  the  complaint  made  of  them  by  the 
Abbot,  the  incipient  adventures  of  Morgante  in  his  new  charac- 
ter, and  the  farewell,  and  family  recognition  of  the  Abbot  and 
Orlando.  The  passages  about  the  falling  of  manna,  and  the 
eternal  punishment  of  those  who  are  dear  to  us,  furnish  the 
earliest  instance  of  that  penetration  into  absurdity,  and  the  un- 
conscious matter-of-course  air  of  speaking  of  it,  which  constitute 
the  humorous  part  of  the  style  of  Voltaire.  The  character  of 
Margutte,  who  makes  his  appearance  in  Canto  18,  and  carries 
this  style  to  its  height,  is  no  less  remarkable  as  an  anticipation 
of  the  most  impudent  portraits  of  professed  worldliness,  and 
seems  to  warrant  the  suspicions  entertained  respecting  the  grosser 
sceptics  of  that  age,  while  it  shows  the  light  in  which  they  were 
regarded  by  the  more  refined.  In  Margutte's  panegyrics  upon 
what  he  liked,  appear  to  be  the  seeds  of  Berni  and  his  followers. 
One  of  the  best  things  to  be  said  of  the  serious  characters  of 
Pulci,  and  where  he  has  the  advantage  of  Ariosto  himself,  is 
that  you  know  them  with  more  distinctness,  and  become  more 
personally  interested  in  them  as  people  like  yourself;  whereas, 
in  Ariosto,  with  all  his  humanity,  the  knights  are  too  much  of 
mere  knights, — warlike  animals.  Their  flesh  and  blood  is  too 
much  encrusted  by  their  armor.  Even  Rubbi,  the  quaint  and 
formal  editor  of  the  Parnaso  Italiano,  with  all  his  courtesies 
towards  established  things,  says,  in  distinguishing  the  effect  of 
three  great  poets  of  Italy,  that  "  You  will  adore  Ariosto,  you 
will  admire  Tasso,  but  you  will  love  Pulci."  The  alliteration 
suits  our  critic's  vivacity  better  : — "  In  fine,  tu  adorerai  1' Arios- 
to, tu  ammirerai  il  Tasso,  ma  tu  amerai  il  Pulci." 

PROSE    TRANSLATION  OF    THE    BEGINNING    OF    THE    MORGANTE    MAO 

GIORE. 

— Twelve  Paladins  (saith  the  poet)  had  the  emperor  Charle- 
naagne  in  his  court ;  and  the  most  wise  and  famous  of  them  was 
Orlando.  It  is  of  him  I  am  about  to  speak,  and  of  his  friend  Mor- 
gante, and  of  Gan   the   Traitor,  who   beguiled    hiin  to  his  death 

32 


128  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  lxu. 

in  Roncesvalles,  where  he  sounded  his  horn  so  mightily  after  the 
Dolorous  Rout. 

It  was  Easter,  and  Charles  had  all  his  court  with  him  in  Pa- 
ris,  making  liigh  feasts  and  triumph.  There  was  Orlando,  the 
first  among  them,  and  Ogier  the  Dane,  and  Astolfo  the  English- 
man, and  Ansuigi :  and  there  came  Angiotin  of  Bayonne,  and 
Uliviero,  and  the  gentle  Berlinghieri ;  and  there  was  also  Avo- 
lio,  and  Avino,  and  Otho  of  Normandy,  and  Richard,  and  the 
wise  Namo,  and  the  aged  Salamon,  and  Walter  from  Monlione, 
and  Baldwin  who  was  the  son  of  the  wretched  Gan.  The  son 
of  Pepin  was  too  happy,  and  oftentimes  fairly  groaned  for  joy 
at  seeing  all  his  Paladins  together. 

But  Fortune  stands  watching  in  secret,  to  baffle  our  designs. 
While  Charles  was  thus  hugging  himself  with  delight,  Orlando 
governed  everything  at  court,  and  this  made  Gan  burst  with 
envy  ;  so  that  he  began  one  day  talking  with  Charles  after  the 
following 'manner  :  — "  Are  we  always  to  have  Orlando  for  our 
master  ?  I  have  thought  of  speaking  to  you  about  it  a  thousand 
times.  Orlando  has  a  great  deal  too  much  presumption.  Here 
are  we,  counts,  dukes,  and  kings,  at  your  service,  but  not  at 
his  :  and  we  have  resolved  not  to  be  governed  by  a  boy.  You 
betran  in  Aspramont  to  give  him  to  understand  how  valiant  he 
was,  and  that  he  did  great  things  at  that  fountain  ;  whereas  if 
it  had  not  been  for  the  good  Gerard,  I  know  very  well  where 
the  victory  would  have  been.  The  truth  is,  he  has  an  eye  upon 
the  crown.  This,  Charles,  is  the  worthy  who  has  deserved  so 
much  !  All  your  generals  are  afflicted  at  it.  As  for  me,  I  shall 
repass  those  mountains  over  which  I  came  to  you  with  seventy- 
iwo  counts.     Do  you  take  him  for  a  Mars  ?" 

Orlando  happened  to  hear  these  words  as  he  sat  apart,  and 
it  displeased  him  with  Gan  that  he  should  speak  so,  but  much 
more  that  Charles  should  believe  him.  He  would  have  killed 
Gan,  if  Uliviero  had  not  prevented  him  and  taken  his  sword 
Durlindana  out  of  his  hand  ;  nay,  he  could  have  almost  killed 
CMiarlemagne  himself;  but  id  last  he  went  away  from  Paris  by 
himself,  raging  with  scorn  and  grief.  He  borrowed  as  he  went, 
of  Ermellina  the  wife  of  Ogier,  the  Dane's  sword  Cortana  and 
his   hoi-«!e   Rondel,  and    proceeded  on   his  way  to  Brava.     His 


«;hap.  lxii.]  PULCI.  129 

wife,  Alda  the  Fair,  hastened  to  embrace  him  ;  but  while  she 
was  saying,  "  Welcome,  my  Orlando,"  he  was  going  to  strike  her 
with  his  sword,  for  his  head  was  bewildered,  and  he  took  her  for 
Ganellone.  The  fair  Alda  marvelled  greatly,  but  Orlando  re- 
collected himself,  and  she  took  hold  of  the  bridle,  and  he  leaped 
from  his  horse,  and  told  her  all  that  had  passed,  and  rested  him- 
self with  her  for  some  days. 

He  then  took  his  leave,  being  still  carried  away  by  his  dis- 
dain, and  resolved  to  pass  over  into  Pagan-land  ;  and  as  he 
rode,  he  thought,  every  step  of  the  way,  of  the  traitor  Gan  ;  and 
so,  riding  on  wherever  the  road  took  him,  ^he  reached  the  con- 
fines between  the  Christian  countries  and  the  Pagan,  and  came 
upon  an  abbey,  situate  in  a  dark  place  in  a  desert. 

Now  above  the  abbey  was  a  great  mountain,  inhabited  by 
three  fierce  giants,  one  of  whom  was  named  Passamonte,  ano- 
ther Alabastro,  and  the  third  Morgante  ;  and  these  giants  used 
to  disturb  the  abbey,  by  throwing  tilings  down  upon  it  from  the 
mountain  with  slings,  so  that  the  poor  little  monks  could  not  go 
out  to  fetch  wood  or  water.  Orlando  knocked,  but  nobody 
would  open  till  the  abbot  was  spoken  to.  At  last  the  abbot  came 
himself,  and  opening  the  door,  bade  him  welcome.  The  good 
man  told  him  the  reason  of  the  delay,  and  said  that  since  the 
arrival  of  the  giants,  they  had  been  so  perplexed  that  they  did 
not  know  what  to  do.  "  Our  ancient  fathers  in  the  desert," 
quoth  he,  "  were  rewarded  according  to  their  holiness.  It  is 
not  to  be  supposed  that  they  lived  only  upon  locusts  ;  doubtless, 
it  also  rained  manna  upon  them  from  heaven  ;  but  here  one 
is  regaled  with  stones,  which  the  giants  rain  upon  us  from  the 
mountdin.  These  are  our  nice  bits  and  relishes.  The  fiercest 
of  the  giants,  Morgante,  plucks  up  pines  and  other  great  trees 
by  the  roots,  and  casts  them  on  us."  While  they  were  talking 
thus  in  the  cemetery,  there  came  a  stone,  which  seemed  as  if  it 
would  break  Rondel's  back.  "  For  God's  sake,  cavalier,"  said 
the  abbot,  "  come  in,  for  the  manna  is  falling."  "  My  dear  ab- 
bot," answered  Orlando,  "  this  fellow,  methinks,  does  not  wish 
to  let  my  horse  feed  ;  he  wants  to  cure  him  of  being  restive  ; 
the  stone  seems  as  if  it  came  from  a  good  arm."  "  Yes,"  re- 
plied the   holy  father,  "  I  did   not  deceive  you.     T   think,  some 


130  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  t.xtj. 

day  or  other,  they  will  cast  the  mountain  upon  us."  Orlando 
quieted  his  horse  Rondel,  and  then  sat  down  to  a  meal  ;  aftei 
which  he  said,  "  Abbot,  I  must  go  and  return  the  present  that 
has  been  made  to  my  horse."  The  abbot  with  great  tenderness 
endeavored  to  dissuade  him,  but  in  vain  ;  upon  which  he  cross- 
ed him  on  the  forehead,  and  said,  "  Go  then,  and  the  blessing  oi 
God  be  with  you." 

Orlando  scaled  the  mountain,  and  came  where  Passamonte 
was,  who  seeing  him  alone,  measured  him  with  his  eyes  and 
asked  him  if  he  would  stay  with  him  for  a  page,  promising  to 
make  hmfi  comfortable.  "  Stupid  Saracen,"  said  Orlando,  "  I 
come  to  you,  according  to  the  will  of  God,  to  be  your  death,  and 
not  your  foot-boy.  You  have  displeased  his  servants  here,  and 
are  no  longer  to  be  endured,  dog  that  you  are." 

Non  puo  piu  comportarti  can,  mastino 

The  giant,  finding  himself  thus  insulted,  ran  in  a  fury  to  arm 
him,  and  returnmg  to  Orlando,  slung  at  him  a  large  stone, 
which  struck  him  on  the  head  with  such  force,  as  not  only  made 
his  helmet  ring  again,  but  felled  him  to  the  earth.  Passamonte 
thought  he  was  dead.  "  What,"  said  he,  retiring  to  disarm 
himself,  "  could  have  brought  that  paltry  fellow  here  ?" 

But  Christ  never  forsakes  his  followers.  While  the  giant  went 
to  disarm  himself,  Orlando  recovered,  and  cried  aloud,  "  Giant, 
where  are  you  going  ?  Do  you  think  that  you  have  killed  me  ? 
Turn  back,  for  unless  you  have  wings,  you  shall  not  escape  me, 
dog  of  a  renegade."  The  giant  greatly  marvelling,  turned 
back  and  stooping  to  pick  up  a  stone,  Orlando,  who  had  Cortana 
naked  in  his  hand,  cleft  his  skull  ;  and  cursing  Mahomet,  the 
giant  tumbled,  dying  and  blaspheming,  to  the  ground.  Blas- 
pheming fell  the  sour-hearted  and  cruel  wretch  ;  but  Orlando, 
in  the  meanwhile,  thanked  the  Father  and  the  Word. 

The  Paladin  went  on,  seeking  for  Alabastro,  the  second  giant ; 
who,  when  he  saw  him,  endeavored  to  pluck  up  a  great  piece  of 
stony  earth  by  the  roots.  "Ho,  ho!"  cried  Orlando,  "what, 
you  think  to  throw  a  stone,  do  you  ?"  Then  Alabastro  took  his 
sling,  and  flung  at  him  so  large  a  fragment  as  obliged  Orlando 
to  defend  himself,  for  if  it  had  struck  him,  he  would   no  more 


CHAP.  LXU  J  PULCI.  131 

have  needed  a  surgeon  ;  but  collecting  his  strength,  he  thrust 
his  sword  into  the  giant's  breast,  and  the  loggerhead  fell  dead. 

Morgante,  the  third  giant,  had  a  palace  made  of  earth,  and 
boughs,  and  shingles,  in  which  he  shut  himself  up  at  night.  Or- 
lando knocked,  and  disturbed  the  giant  from  his  sleep,  who  came 
staring  to  the  door  like  a  madman,  for  he  had  had  a  bewildering 
dream.  "  Who  knocks  there  ?  "  "  You  will  know  too  soon," 
answered  Orlando  :  "  I  am  come  to  make  you  do  penance  for 
your  sins,  like  your  brothers.  Divine  Providence  has  sent  me 
to  avenge  the  wrongs  of  the  monks  upon  the  whole  set  of  you  ; 
and  I  have  to  tell  you,  that  Passamonte  and  Alabastro  are  al- 
ready as  cold  as  a  couple  of  pilasters."  "  Noble  knight,"  said 
Morgante,  "  do  me  no  ill  ;  but  if  you  are  a  Christian,  tell  me  in 
courtesy  who  you  are."  "  I  will  satisfy  you  of  my  faith,"  re- 
plied Orlando  :  "  I  adore  Christ ;  and,  if  you  please,  you  may 
adore  him  also." 

"I  have  had  a  strange  vision,"  replied  Morgante,  with  a  low 
voice  :  "I  was  assailed  by  a  dreadful  serpent,  and  called  upon 
Mahomet  in  vain  ;  then  I  called  upon  your  God,  who  was  cruci- 
fied, and  he  succored  me,  and  I  was  delivered  from  the  serpent  ; 
so  I  am  disposed  to  become  a  Christian." 

"If  you  keep  in  this  mind,"  returned  Orlando,  "you  shall 
worship  the  true  God,  and  come  with  me  and  be  my  companion, 
and  I  will  love  you  with  perfect  love.  Your  idols  are  false  and 
vain  ;  the  true  God  is  the  God  of  the  Christians.  Deny  the  un- 
just and  villainous  worship  of  your  Mahomet,  and  be  baptized 
in  the  name  of  my  God,  who  alone  is  worthy."  "  I  am  content," 
said  Morgante.  Then  Orlando  embraced  him,  and  said,  "  I  will 
lead  you  to  the  abbey."  "  Let  us  go  quickly,"  replied  Mor- 
gante, for  he  was  impatient  to  make  his  peace  with  the  monks. 
Orlando  rejoiced,  saying  "  My  good  brother,  and  devout  withal, 
you  must  ask  pardon  of  the  abbot  ;  for  God  has  enlightened  you, 
and  accepted  you,  and  he  would  have  you  practise  humility." 
"  Yes,"  said  Morgante,  "  thanks  to  you,  your  God  shall  hence- 
forth be  my  God.  Tell  me  your  name,  and  afterwards  dispose 
of  me  as  you  will  ;"  and  he  told  him  that  he  was  Orlando. 

"  Blessed  Jesus  be  thanked,"  said  the  giant,  "  for  I  have 
always  heard  you  called  a  perfect  knight  j   upd  as  1  said,  I  will 

■62*:- 


132  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  lxii 

follow  you  all  my  life  through."  And  so  conversing  they  went" 
•together  towards  the  abbey,  and  by  the  way  Orlando  talked  with 
Morgante  of  the  dead  giants,  and  sought  to  console  him,  saying 
they  had  done  the  monks  a  thousand  injuries,  and  our  scripture 
says  the  good  shall  be  rewarded  and  the  evil  punished,  and  we 
must  submit  to  the  will  of  God.  "  The  doctors  of  our  church,'* 
continued  he,  "  are  all  agreed,  that  if  those  who  are  glorified  ir 
heaven,  were  to  feel  pity  for  their  miserable  kindred,  who  lie  in 
such  horrible  confusion  in  hell,  their  beatitude  would  come  to 
nothing;  and  this,  you  see,  would  plainly  be  unjust  on  the  part 
of  God.  But  such  is  the  fii-mness  of  their  faith,  that  what  ap- 
pears good  to  him,  appears  good  to  them.  Do  what  he  may,  they 
hold  it  to  be  done  well,  and  that  it  is  impossible  for  him  to  err ; 
so  that  if  their  very  fathers  and  mothers  are  suffering  everlast- 
ing punishment,  it  does  not  disturb  them  an  atom.  This  is  the 
custom,  I  assure  you,  in  the  choirs  above." 

"A  word  to  the  wise,"  said  Morgante;  "you  shall  see  if  I 
grieve  for  my  brethren,  and  whether  or  no  I  submit  to  the  will 
of  God,  and  behave  myself  like  an  angel.  So  dust  to  dust ;  and 
now  let  us  enjoy  ourselves.  I  will  cut  off  their  hands,  all  four 
of  them,  and  take  them  to  these  holy  monks,  that  they  may  be 
sure  they  are  dead,  and  not  fear  to  go  out  alone  into  the  desert. 
They  will  then  be  sure  also  that  the  Lord  has  purified  me,  and 
taken  me  out  of  darkness,  and  assured  to  me  the  kingdom  of 
heaven."  So  saying,  the  giant  cutoff  the  hands  of  his  brethren, 
and  left  their  bodies  to  the  beasts  and  birds. 

They  went  to  the  abbey,  where  the  abbot  was  expecting  Or- 
lando in  great  anxiety ;  but  the  monks  not  knowing  what  had 
happened,  ran  to  the  abbot  in  great  haste  and  alarm,  saying, 
"  Will  you  suffer  this  giant  to  come  in  ?"  And  when  the  abbot 
saw  the  giant  he  changed  countenance.  Orlando  perceiving 
him  thus  disturbed,  made  haste  and  said,  "Abbot,  peace  be  with 
you  !  The  giant  is  a  Christian  ;  he  believes  in  Christ,  and  has 
renounced  his  false  prophet,  Mahomet."  And  Morgante  show- 
ing the  hands  in  proof  of  his  faith,  the  abbot  thanked  heaven 
with  great  contentment  of  mind. 

The  abbot  did  much  honor  to  Morgante,  comparing  him  with 
St.  Paul ;  and  they  rested  there  many  days.     One  day,  wander- 


CHAP.  Lxii.]  PULCI.  133 

ing  over  the  abbey,  they  entered  a  room  where  the  abbot  kept  a 
quantity  of  armor ;  and  Morgante  saw  a  bow  which  pleased 
him,  and  he  fastened  it  on.  Now  there  was  in  the  place  a  great 
scarcity  of  water  ;  and  Orlando  said,  like  his  good  brother, 
"  Morgante,  I  wish  you  would  fetch  us  some  water."  "  Com- 
mand me  as  you  please,"  said  he  ;  and  placing  a  great  tub  upon 
his  shoulders,  he  went  towards  a  spring  at  which  he  had  been 
accustomed  to  drink,  at  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  Having 
reached  the  spring,  he  suddenly  heard  a  great  noise  in  the 
forest.  He  took  an  arrow  from  the  quiver,  placed  it  in  the  bow, 
and  raising  his  head,  saw  a  great  herd  of  swine  rushing  towards 
the  spring  where  he  stood.  Morgante  shot  one  of  them  clsan 
through  the  head,  and  laid  him  sprawling.  Another,  as  if  in 
revenge,  ran  towards  the  giant,  without  giving  him  time  to  use 
another  arrow  ;  so  he  lent  him  a  cuff  on  the  head,  which  broke 
the  bone,  and  killed  him  also  ;  which  stroke  the  rest  seeing,  fled 
In  haste  through  the  valley.  Morgante  then  placed  the  tub  full 
of  water  upon  one  shoulder  and  the  two  porkers  on  the  other, 
and  returned  to  the  abbey,  which  was  at  some  distance,  without 
spilling  a  drop. 

The  monks  were  delighted  to  see  the  fresh  water,  but  still 
more  tb  see  the  pork  ;  for  there  is  no  animal  to  whom  food  comes 
amiss.  They  let  their  breviaries  therefore  go  to  sleep  awhile, 
and  fell  heartily  to  work,  so  that  the  cats  and  dogs  had  reason 
to  lament  the  polish  of  the  bones. 

"Now,  why  do  we  stay  here,  doing  nothing?"  said  Orlando, 
one  day,  to  Morgante ;  and  he  shook  hands  with  the  abbot,  and 
told  him  he  must  take  his  leave.  "  I  must  go,"  said  he,  '*  and 
make  up  for  lost  time.  I  ought  to  have  gone  long  ago,  my  good 
father ;  but  I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  feel  within  me,  at  the  con- 
tent I  have  enjoyed  here  in  your  company.  I  shall  bear  in  mind 
and  in  heart  with  me" for  ever,  the  abbot,  the  abbey,  and  this 
desert,  so  great  is  the  love  they  have  raised  in  me  in  so  short  a 
time.  The  great  God,,  who  reigns  above,  must  thank  you  for 
me,  in  his  own  abode.  Bestow  on  us  your  benediction,  and  do 
not  forget  us  in  your  prayers." 

When  the  abbot  heard  the  County  Orlando  talk  thus,  his  iieart 
melted  within  him  for  tenderness,  and   he  said,  "  Knight,  if  we 


mi  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  lxii 

have  failed  in  any  courtesy  due  to  your  prowess  and  great  gen- 
tleness (and,  indoed,  what  we  have  done  has  been  but  little), 
pray  put  it  to  the  account  of  our  ignorance,  and  of  the  place 
which  we  inhabit.  We  are  but  poor  men  of  the  cloister,  better 
able  to  regale  you  with  masses,  and  orisons,  and  paternosters, 
than  with  dinners  and  suppers.  You  have  so  taken  this  heart 
of  mine  by  the  many  noble  qualities  I  have  seen  in  you,  that  1 
shall  be  with  you  still  wherever  you  go  ;  and,  on  the  other  hand, 
you  will  always  be  present  here  with  me.  This  seems  a  con- 
tradiction ;  but  you  are  wise,  and  will  take  my  meaning  dis- 
creetly. You  have  saved  the  very  life  and  spirit  within  us ; 
for  so  much  perturbation  had  those  giants  cast  about  our  place, 
that  the  way  to  the  Lord  among  us  was  blocked  up.  May  he 
who  sent  you  into  these  woods  reward  your  justice  and  piety,  by 
which  we  are  delivered  from  our  trouble  ;  thanks  be  to  him  and 
to  you.  We  shall  all  be  disconsolate  at  your  departure.  We 
shall  grieve  that  we  cannot  detain  you  among  us  for  months 
and  years ;  but  you  do  not  wear  these  weeds ;  you  bear  arms 
and  armor  ;  and  you  may  possibly  merit  as  well,  in  carrying 
those,  as  in  wearing  this  cap.  You  read  your  Bible,  and  your 
virtue  has  been  the  means  of  showing  the  giant  the  way  to 
heaven.  Go  in  peace,  and  prosper,  wherever  you  may  be.  I 
do  not  ask  your  name  ;  but  if  ever  I  am  asked  who  it  was  that 
came  among  us,  I  shall  say  that  it  was  an  angel  from  God.  If 
there  is  any  armor,  or  other  thing  that  you  would  have,  go  into 
the  room  where  it  is,  and  take  it."  "  If  you  have  any  armor 
that  would  suit  my  companion,"  replied  Orlando,  "  that  I  will 
accept  with  pleasure."  "Come  and  see,"  said  the  abbot;  and 
they  went  into  a  room  that  was  full  of  old  armor.  Morgante 
examined  everything,  but  could  find  nothing  large  enough,  ex- 
cept a  rusty  breast-plate,  which  fitted  him  marvellously.  It  had 
belonged  to  an  enormous  giant,  who  was  killed  there  of  old,  by 
Milo  of  Angrante.  There  was  a  painting  on  the  wall,  which 
told  the  whole  story  :  how  the  giant  had  laid  cruel  and  long  siege 
to  the  abbey  ;  and  how  he  had  been  overthrown  at  last  by  the 
great  Milo.  Orlando  seeing  this,  said  within  himself: — "Oh 
God  !  unto  whom  all  tilings  are  known,  how  came  Milo  here, 
who  destroyed  this  giant  ?"     And  reading   certain   inscriptions 


CHAP.  Lxn.]  PULCI.  IT) 

which  were  there,  he  could  no  longer  keep  affirm  countenance, 
but  the  tears  ran  down  his  cheeks. 

When  the  abbot  saw  Orlando  weep,  and  his  brow  redden,  and 
the  light  of  his  eyes  become  childlike,  for  sweetness,  he  asked 
hini  the  reason  ;  but  finding  him  still  dumbly  affected,  he  said, 
"  I  do  not  know  whether  you  are  overpowered  by  admiration 
of  what  is  painted  in  this  chamber.  You  must  know  that  I  am 
of  high  descent,  though  not  through  lawful  wedlock.  1  believe 
I  may  say,  I  am  nephew  or  sister's  son  to  no  less  a  man  than 
that  Rinaldo,  who  was  so  great  a  Paladin  in  the  world,  though 
my  own  father  was  not  of  a  lawful  mother,  Ansuigi  was  his 
name  ;  my  own,  out  in  the  world,  was  Chiaramonte,  and  this 
Milo  was  my  father's  brother.  Ah,  gentle  baron,  for  blessed 
Jesus'  sake,  tell  me  what  name  is  yours !"  Orlando,  all  glow- 
ing  with  affection,  and  bathed  in  tears,  replied,  "  My  dear  abbot 
and  kinsman,  he  before  you  is  your  Orlando."  Upon  this,  they 
ran  for  tenderness  into  each  other's  arms,  weeping  on  both  sides 
with  a  sovereign  affection,  which  was  too  high  to  be  expressed. 
The  abbot  was  so  overjoyed  that  he  seemed  as  if  he  would  never 
have  done  embracing  Orlando.  "  By  what  fortune,"  said  the 
knight,  "  do  I  find  you  in  this  obscure  place  ?  Tell  me,  my 
dear  father,  how  was  it  you  became  a  monk,  and  did  not  follow 
arms,  like  myself  and  the  rest  of  us?" 

"  It  is  the  will  of  God,"  replied  the  abbot,  hastening  to  give 
his  feelings  utterance.  "  Many  and  divers  are  the  paths  he 
points  out  for  us,  by  which  to  arrive  at  his  city  :  some  walk  it 
with  the  sword,  some  with  the  pastoral  staff.  Nature  makes 
the  inclination  different,  and  therefore  there  are  different  ways 
for  us  to  take  ;  enough  if  we  all  arrive  safely  at  one  and  the 
same  place,  the  last  as  well  as  the  first.  We  are  all  pilgrims 
through  many  kingdoms.  We  all  wish  to  go  to  Rome,  Orlando  ; 
but  we  go  picking  out  our  journey  through  different  roads. 
Such  is  the  trouble  in  body  and  soul  brought  upon  us  by  that  sin 
of  the  old  apple.  Day  and  night  am  I  here  with  my  book  in 
hand  ;  day  and  night  do  you  ride  about,  holding  your  sword,  nnd 
sweating  oft  both  in  sun  and  sliaflow,  and  all  to  get  round  at 
last  to  the  home  from  which  we  departed — I  say  all  out  of  anxi- 
ety and  hope,  to  get  hack  unto  our  Iiomo  of  old."  And  the 
giant  hearing  thrMii  talk  f>f  these  thiri(r.s,  shci\  tears  also. 


136  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap  vxm 


CHAPTER  LXIII. 

My  Books.* 

Sitting,  last  winter,  among  my  books,  and  walled  round  with 
all  the  comfort  and  protection  which  they  and  my  fire-side  could 
afford  me  ;  to  wit,  a  table  of  high-piled  books  at  my  back,  my 
wrhins-desk  on  one  side  of  me,  some  shelves  on  the  other,  and 
the  feeling  of  the  warm  fire  at  my  feet ;  I  began  to  consider  how 
I  loved  the  authors  of  those  books  :  how  1  loved  them,  too,  not 
only  for  the  imaginative  pleasures  they  afford  me,  but  for  their 
making  me  love  the  very  books  then)selves,  and  delight  to  be  in 
contact  with  them.  I  looked  sideways  at  my  Spenser,  my  Theo- 
critus, and  my  Arabian  Nights  ;  then  above  them  at  my  Italian 
poets  ;  then  behind  me  at  my  Dryden  and  Pope,  my  romances, 
and  my  Boccaccio  ;  then  on  my  left  side  at  my  Chaucer,  who  lay 
on  a  writing-desk  ;  and  thought  how  natural  it  was  in  C.  L.  to 
give  a  kiss  to  an  old  folio,  as  I  once  saw  him  do  to  Chapman's 
Homer.  At  the  same  time  I  wondered  how  he  could  sit  in  that 
front  room  of  his  with  nothing  but  a  few  unfeeling  tables  and 
chairs,  or  at  best  a  few  engravings  in  trim  frames,  instead  of 
putting  a  couple  of  arm-chairs  into  the  back-room  with  the  books 
in  it,  where  there  is  but  one  window.  Would  I  were  there,  with 
both  the  chairs  properly  filled,  and  one  or  two  more  besides ! 
"  We  had  talk,  sir,"^— the  only  talk  capable  of  making  one  for- 
get the  books. 

I  entrench  myself  in  my  books  equally  against  sorrow  and  the 
weather.  If  the  wind  comes  through  a  passage,  I  look  about  to 
see  how  I  can  fence  it  off  by  a  better  disposition  of  my  movea- 
bles ;  if  a  melancholy  thought  is  importunate,  I  give  another 

*  This  and  the  following  paper  was  written  during  the  author's  residence 
in  Italy.    The  use  of  the  first  person  singular  instead  of  plural,  was  invol- 

untarv 


CHAP.  LXiii.]  MY  BOOKS.  137 

glance  at  my  Spenser.  When  I  speak  of  being  in  contact  with 
my  books,  1  mean  it  literally.  I  like  to  lean  my  head  against 
them.  Living  in  a  southern  climate,  though  in  a  part  sufficient- 
ly northern  to  feel  the  winter,  I  was  obliged,  during  that  season, 
to  take  some  of  the  books  out  of  the  study,  and  hang  them  up 
near  the  fire-place  in  the  sitting-room,  which  is  the  only  room  that 
has  such  a  convenience.  I  therefore  walled  myself  in,  as  well 
as  I  could,  in  the  manner  above-mentioned.  I  took  a  walk  every 
day,  to  the  astonishment  of  the  Genoese,  who  used  to  huddle 
against  a  bit  of  sunny  wall,  like  flies  on  a  chimney-piece  ;  but 
I  did  this  only  that  I  might  so  much  the  more  enjoy  my  English 
evening.  The  fire  was  a  wood  fire  instead  of  a  coal  ;  but  I  im- 
agined myself  in  the  country.  I  remembered  at  the  very  worst, 
that  one  end  of  my  native  land  was  not  nearer  the  other  than 
England  is  to  Italy. 

While  writing  this  article  I  am  in  my  study  again.  Like  the 
rooms  in  all  houses  in  this  country  which  are  not  hovels,  it  is 
handsome  and  ornamented.  On  one  side  it  looks  towards  a  gar- 
den and  the  mountains ;  on  another,  to  the  mountains  and  the 
sea.  What  signifies  all  this  ?  I  turn  my  back  upon  the  sea ;  I 
shut  up  even  one  of  the  side  windows  looking  upon  the  moun- 
tains, and  retain  no  prospect  but  that  of  the  trees.  On  the  right 
and  left  of  me  are  book-shelves  ;  a  book-case  is  affectionately 
open  in  front  of  me  ;  and  thus  kindly  inclosed  with  my  books 
and  the  green  leaves,  I  write.  If  all  this  is  too  luxurious  and 
effeminate,  of  all  luxuries  it  is  the  one  that  leaves  you  the  most 
strength.  And  this  is  to  be  said  for  scholarship  in  general.  It 
unfits  a  man  for  activity,  for  his  bodily  part  in  the  world  ;  but  it 
often  doubles  both  the  power  and  the  sense  of  his  mental  duties ; 
and  with  much  indignation  against  his  body,  and  more  against 
those  who  tyrannise  over  the  intellectual  claims  of  mankind,  the 
man  of  letters,  like  the  magician  of  old,  is  prepared  "  to  play  the 
devil  "  with  the  great  men  of  this  world,  in  a  style  that  aston- 
ishes both  the  sword  and  the  toga. 

I  do  not  like  this  fine  large  study.  I  like  elegance.  I  like 
room  to  breathe  in,  and  even  walk  about,  when  I  want  to  breathe 
and  walk  about.  I  like  a  great  library  next  my  study  ;  but  for 
the  study  itself,  give  me  a  small  snug  plaoc,  almost  entirely  waller? 


138  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  i-xni. 

with  books.  There  should  be  only  one  window  in  it,  looking 
upon  trees.  Some  prefer  a  place  with  few,  or  no  books  at  all — 
nothing  but  a  chair  or  a  table,  like  Epictetus  ;  but  I  should  say 
that  these  were  philosophers,  not  lovers  of  books,  if  I  did  not  re- 
collect that  Montaigne  was  both.  He  had  a  study  in  a  round 
tower,  walled  as  aforesaid.  It  is  true,  one  forgets  one's  books 
while  writing — at  least  they  say  so.  For  my  part,  I  think  I 
have  them  in  a  sort  of  sidelong  mind's  eye  ;  like  a  second 
thought,  which  is  none — like  a  water-fall,  or  a  whispering  wind. 

I  dislike  a  grand  library  to  study  in.  I  mean  an  immense 
apartment,  with  books  all  in  Museum  order,  especially  wire- 
safed.  I  say  nothing  against  the  Museum  itself,  or  public  libra- 
ries. They  are  capital  places  to  go  to,  but  not  to  sit  in  ;  and 
talking  of  this,  I  hate  to  read  in  public,  and  in  strange  company. 
The  jealous  silence  ;  the  dissatisfied  looks  of  the  messengers  ; 
.he  inability  to  help  yourself;  the  not  knowing  whether  you  really 
ought  to  trouble  the  messengers,  much  less  the  gentleman  in 
black,  or  brown,  who  is,  perhaps,  half  a  trustee ;  with  a  variety 
of  other  jarrings  between  privacy  and  publicity,  prevent  one's 
settling  heartily  to  work.  They  say  "  they  manage  these  things 
better  in  France  ;"  and  I  dare  say  they  do  ;  but  I  think  I  should 
feel  still  more  distrait  in  France,  in  spite  of  the  benevolence  of 
the  servitors,  and  the  generous  profusion  of  pen,  ink,  and  paper. 
I  should  feel  as  if  I  were  doing  nothing  but  interchanging  ameni- 
ties with  polite  writers. 

A  grand  private  library,  which  the  master  of  the  house  also 
makes  his  study,  never  looks  to  me  like  a  real  place  of  books, 
much  less  of  authorship.  I  cannot  take  kindly  to  it.  It  is  cer- 
tainly not  out  of  envy  ;  for  three  parts  of  the  books  are  generally 
trash,  and  I  can  seldom  think  of  the  rest  and  the  proprietor  to- 
gether. It  reminds  me  of  a  fine  gentleman,  of  a  collector,  of  a 
patron,  of  Gil  R'as  and  the  Marquis  of  Marialva  ;  of  anything 
but  genius  and  comfort.  I  have  a  particular  hatred  of  a  round 
table  (not  the  Round  Table,  for  that  was  a  dining  one)  covered 
ana  irradiated  with  books,  and  never  met  with  one  in  the  house 
of  a  clever  man  but  once.  It  is  tlie  reverse  of  Montaigne's 
Round  Tower.  Instead  of  bringing  the  books  around  you,  they 
ull  seem  turning  another  way,  and  eluding  your  hands. 


CHAP.  LxiiiJ  MY   BOOKS.  ]39 

Conscious  of  my  propriety  and  comfort  in  these  matters,  I  take 
an  interest  in  the  book-cases  as  well  as  the  books  of  my  friends. 
I  long  to  meddle,  and  dispose  them  after  my  own  notions.  When 
they  see  this  confession,  they  will  acknowledge  the  virtue  I  have 
practised.  I  believe  I  did  mention  his  book-room  to  C.  L.  and  I 
think  he  told  me  that  he  often  sat  there  when  alone.  It  would 
be  hard  not  to  believe  him.  His  library,  though  not  abounding 
in  Greek  or  Latin  (which  are  the  only  things  to  help  some  per- 
sons to  an  idea  of  literature),  is  anything  but  superficial.  The 
depth  of  philosophy  and  poetry  are  there,  the  innermost  passages 
of  the  human  heart.  It  has  some  Latin  too.  It  has  also  a  hand- 
some contempt  for  appearance.  It  looks  like  what  it  is,  a  selec- 
tion made  at  precious  intervals  from  the  book-stalls  ; — now  a 
Chaucer  at  nine  and  two- pence  ;  now  a  Montaigne  or  a  Sir  Tho- 
mas Browne  at  two  shillings  ;  now  a  Jeremy  Taylor;  a  Spino- 
za ;  an  old  English  Dramatist,  Prior,  and  Sir  Philip  Sidney  ;  and 
the  books  are  "  neat  as  imported."  The  very  perusal  of  the 
backs  is  a  "  discipline  of  humanity."  There  Mr.  Southey  takes 
his  place  again  with  an  old  Radical  friend  :  there  Jeremy  Col- 
lier is  at  peace  with  Dryden :  there  the  lion,  Martin  Luther,  lies 
down  with  the  Quaker  lamb,  Sewell ;  there  Guzman  d'Alfarache 
thinks  himself  fit  company  for  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  and  has 
his  claims  admitted.  Even  the  "  high  fantastical  "  Duchess  of 
Newcastle,  with  her  laurel  on  her  head,  is  received  with  grave 
honors,  and  not  the  less  for  declining  to  trouble  herself  with  the 
constitutions  of  her  maids.  There  is  an  approach  to  this  in  the 
library  of  W.  C.  who  also  includes  Italian  among  his  humani- 
ties. W.  II.,  I  believe,  has  no  books,  except  mine  ;  but  he  has 
Shakspeare  and  Rousseau  by  heart.  N.,  who  though  not  a 
book-man  by  profession,  is  fond  of  those  who  are,  and  who  lovea 
his  volume  enough  to  read  it  across  the  fields,  has  his  library  in 
the  common  sitting-room,  which  is  hospitable.  H.  R.'s  books  are 
all  too  modern  and  finely  bound,  which  however  is  not  his  fault, 
for  they  were  left  him  by  will, — not  the  most  kindly  act  of  the 
testator.  Suppose  a  man  were  to  bequeath  us  a  great  japan  chest 
three  feet  by  four,  with  an  injunction  that  it  was  always  to  stand 
©n  the  tea-table.  I  remember  borrowing  a  book  of  H.  R.  which, 
having  lost,  I  replaced  with  a  copy  equally  well   bound.     I   am 

33 


140  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  Lxni. 

not  sure  I  should  have  been  in  such  haste,  even  to  return  the 
book,  had  it  been  a  common-looking  volume  ;  but  the  splendor  of 
the  loss  dazzled  me  into  this  ostentatious  piece  of  propriety.  I 
set  about  restoring  it  as  if  I  had  diminished  his  fortunes,  and 
waived  the  privilege  a  friend  has  to  use  a  man's  things  as  hia 
own.  I  may  venture  upon  this  ultra-liberal  theory,  not  only  be- 
cause candor  compels  me  to  say  that  I  hold  it  to  a  greater  extent, 
with  Montaigne,  but  because  I  have  been  a  meek  son  in  the 
family  of  book-losers.  I  may  affirm,  upon  a  moderate  calcula- 
tion, that  I  have  lent  and  lost  in  my  time  (and  I  am  eight-and- 
thirty),  half-a-dozen  decent  sized  libraries, — I  mean  books  enough 
to  fill  so  many  ordinary  book-cases.  I  have  never  complained ; 
and  self-love,  as  well  as  gratitude,  makes  me  love  those  who  do 
not  complain  of  me. 

I  own  I  borrow  books  with  as  much  facility  as  I  lend.  I  can- 
not see  a  work  that  interests  me  on  another  person's  shelf,  with- 
out a  wish  to  carry  it  off:  but,  I  repeat,  that  I  have  been  much 
moi'e  sinned  against  than  sinning  in  the  article  of  non-return ; 
and  am  scrupulous  in  the  article  of  intention.  I  never  had 
a  felonious  intent  upon  a  book  but  once  ;  and  then  I  shall  only 
say,  it  was  under  circumstances  so  peculiar,  that  I  cannot  but 
look  upon  the  conscience  that  induced  me  to  restore  it,  as  having 
sacrificed  the  spirit  of  its  very  self  to  the  letter;  and  I  have  a 
grudge  against  it  accordingly.  Some  people  are'  unwilling  to 
lend  their  books.  I  have  a  special  grudge  against  them,  par- 
ticularly those  who  accompany  their  unwillingness  with  uneasy 
professions  to  the  contrary,  and  smiles,  like  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary. 
The  friend  who  helped  to  spoil  my  notions  of  property,  or  rather 
to  make  them  too  good  for  the  world  "  as  it  goes,"  taught  me  also 
to  undervalue  my  squeamishness  in  refusing  to  avail  myself  of 
the  books  of  these  gentlemen.  He  showed  me  how  it  was  doing 
good  to  all  parties  to  put  an  ordinary  face  on  the  matter  ;  though 
I  know  his  own  blushed  not  a  little  sometimes  in  doing  it,  even 
when  the  good  to  be  done  was  for  another.  I  feel,  in  truth,  that 
even  when  anger  inclines  me  to  exercise  this  privilege  of  philo- 
Kophy,  it  is  niore  out  of  revenge  than  contempt.  I  fear  that  in 
allowing  myself  to  borrow  books,  I  sometimes  make  extremes 


CHAP.  Lxiii.]  MY  BOOKS.  141 

meet  in  a  very  sinful  manner,  and  do  it  out  of  a  refined  revenge. 
It  is  like  eating  a  miser's  beef  at  him. 

I  yield  to  none  in  my  love  of  bookstall  urbanity.  I  have  spent 
as  happy  moments  over  the  stalls,  as  any  literary  apprentice  boy 
who  ought  to  be  moving  onwards.  But  I  confess  my  weakness 
in  liking  to  see  some  of  my  favorite  purchases  neatly  bound. 
The  books  I  like  to  have  about  me  most  are,  Spenser,  Chaucer, 
the  minor  poems  of  Milton,  the  Arabian  Nights,  Theocritus, 
Ariosto,  and  such  old  good-natured  speculations  as  Plutarch's 
Morals.  For  most  of  these  I  like  a  plain  good  old  binding,  never 
mind  how  old,  provided  it  wears  well  ;  but  my  Arabian  Nights 
may  be  bound  in  as  fine  and  flowery  a  style  as  possible,  and  I 
should  love  an  engraving  to  every  dozen  pages.  Book-prints  of 
all  sorts,  bad  and  good,  take  with  me  as  much  as  when  I  was  a 
child  ;  and  I  think  some  books,  such  as  Prior's  Poems,  ought  al- 
ways to  have  portraits  of  the  authors.  Prior's  airy  face  with  his 
cap  on,  is  like  having  his  company.  From  early  association,  no 
edition  of  Milton  pleases  me  so  much,  as  that  in  which  there  are 
pictures  of  the  Devil  with  brute  ears,  dressed  like  a  Roman 
General  :  nor  of  Bunyan,  as  the  one  containing  the  print  of  the 
Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death,  with  the  Devil  whispering  in 
Christian's  ear,  or  old  Pope  by  the  way-side,  and 

"  Vanity  Fair, 
With  the  pilgrims  suffering  there." 

1  delight  in  the  recollection  of  the  puzzle  I  used  to  have  with  the 
frontispiece  of  the  Tale  of  a  Tub,  of  my  real  horror  at  the  sight 
of  that  crawling  old  man  representing  Avarice,  at  the  beginning 
of  Enf  eld's  Speaker,  the  LooArm^-G/as-*,  or  some  such  book;  and 
even  of  the  careless  school-boy  hats,  and  the  prim  stomachers 
and  cottage  bonnets,  of  such  golden-age  antiquities  as  the  Village 
School.  The  oldest  and  most  worn-out  wood-cut,  representing 
King  Pippin,  Goody  Two  Shoes,  or  the  grim  Soldan,  sitting  with 
three  .staring  blots  for  his  eyes  and  mouth,  his  sceptre  in  one 
hand,  and  his  other  five  fingers  raised  and  spread  in  admiration 
at  the  feasts  of  the  Gallant  London  Prentice,  cannot  excite  in 
Tie  a  feeling  of  ingratitude.  Cooke's  edition  of  the  British  Poets 
and  Novelists  came  out  when  I  was  at  school,  for  which  reason  I 


i42  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  lxiii. 

novrr  could  put  up  with  Suttaby's  or  Walker's  publications,  ex- 
cept  in  the  case  of  such  worlds  as  the  Fairy  Tales,  which  Mr. 
Cooke  did  not  publish.  Besides,  they  are  loo  cramped,  thick, 
and  mercenary  ;  and  the  pictures  are  all  frontispieces.  They 
do  not  come  in  at  the  proper  places.  Cooke  realized  the  old 
woman's  beau-ideal  of  a  prayer-book, — "  A  little  book,  with  a 
great  deal  of  matter,  and  a  large  type  :" — for  the  type  was  really 
large  for  so  small  a  volume.  Shall  I  ever  forget  his  Collins  and 
Grey,  books  at  once  so  "superbly  ornamented"  and  so  incon- 
ceivably cheap  ?  Sixpence  could  procure  much  before  ;  but 
never  could  it  procure  so  much  as  then,  or  was  at  once  so  much 
respected,  and  so  little  cared  for.  His  artist  Kirk  was  the  best 
artist,  except  Stothard,  that  ever  designed  for  periodical  works; 
and  1  will  venture  to  add  (if  his  name  rightly  announces  his 
country)  the  best  artist  Scotland  ever  produced,  except  Wilkie, 
but  he  unfortunately  had  not  enough  of  his  country  in  him  to 
keep  him  from  dying  young.  His  designs  for  Milton  and  the 
Arabian  Nights,  his  female  extricated  from  the  water  in  the 
Tales  of  the  Genii,  and  his  old  hag  issuing  out  of  the  chest  of 
the  Merchant  Abadah  in  the  same  book,  are  before  me  now,  as 
vividly  as  they  were  then.  He  possessed  elegance  and  the  sense 
of  beauty  in  no  ordinary  degree  ;  though  they  sometimes  played 
a  trick  or  so  of  foppery.  I  shall  never  forget  the  gratitude  with 
which  I  received  an  odd  numJber  of  Akenside,  value  sixpence, 
one  of  the  set  of  that  poet,  which  a  boarder  distributed  among 
three  or  four  of  us,  "  with  his  mother's  compliments."  The  pi'esent 
might  have  been  more  lavish,  but  I  hardly  thought  of  that.  I  re- 
member my  number  ;  it  was  the  one  in  which  there  is  a  picture  of 
the  poet  on  a  sofa,  with  Cupid  coming  to  him,  and  the  words  under- 
neath, "  Tempt  me  no  more,  insidious  Love !"  The  picture  and  the 
number  appeared  to  me  equally  divine.  I  cannot  help  thinking 
to  this  day,  that  it  is  right  and  natural  in  a  gentleman  to  sit  in  a 
stage-dress,  on  that  particular  kind  of  sofa,  though  on  no  other, 
with  that  exclusive  hat  and  feathers  on  his  head,  telling  Cupid 
to  begone  with  a  tragic  air. 

I  love  an  author  the  more  for  having  been  himself  a  lover  of 
books.  The  idea  of  an  ancient  library  perplexes  our  sympa- 
thy by  its   map-like  volumes,   rolled  upon  cylinders.      Our  i-cn- 


^'HAP.  Lxrii.]  MY  BOOKS.  I  !T 

aginatioi  cannot  take  kindly  to  a  yard  of  wit,  or  to  thirty  incli;  i 
of  moral  observation,  rolled  out  like  linen  in  a  draper's  shop. 
But  we  conceive  of  Plato  as  of  a  lover  of  books;  of  Aristotle 
certainly;  of  Plutarch,  Pliny,  Horace,  Julian,  and  Marcus  Au 
relius.  Virgil,  too,  must  have  been  one;  and,  after  a  fashion, 
Martial.  May  I  confess,  that  the  passage  which  1  recollect  with 
the  greatest  pleasure  in  Cicero,  is  where  he  says  that  books  de- 
light us  at  home,  and  are  no  impediment  abroad  ;  travel  with  us, 
rurali.se  with  us.  His  period  is  rounded  off  to  some  purpose: 
•'■  Delectant  domi,  non  impediunt  /oris;  peregrinantur,  rusli- 
cantur/'  1  am  so  much  of  this  opinion,  that  I  do  not  care  to  be 
anywhere  without  having  a  book  or  books  at  hand,  and  like  Dr. 
Orkborne,  in  the  novel  of  Camilla,  stuff  the  coach  or  post-chaise 
"vith  them  whenever  I  travel.  As  books,  however,  become  an- 
cient,  the  love  of  them  becomes  more  unequivocal  and  con- 
spicuous. The  ancients  had  little  of  what  we  call  learning. 
They  made  it.  They  were  also  no  very  eminent  buyers  of 
books — they  made  books  for  posterity.  It  is  true,  that  it  is  not 
at  all  necessary  to  love  many  books,  in  order  to  love  them  much. 
The  scholar,  in  Chaucer,  who  would  rather  have 

At  his  beddes  head 
A  twenty  bokes,  clothed  in  black  and  red, 
Of  Aristotle  and  his  philosophy, 
Than  robes  rich,  or  fiddle,  or  psaltrie. — 

doubtless  beat  all  our  modern  collectors  in  his  passion  for  read- 
ing;  but  books  must  at  least  exist,  and  have  acquired  an  emi 
nence,  befove  their  lovers  can  make  themselves  known.  There 
must  be  a  possession,  also,  to  perfect  the  communion  ;  and  the 
mere  contact  is  much,  even  when  our  mistress  speaks  an  un- 
known language.  Dante  puts  Homer,  the  great  ancient,  in  his 
EJysiuin,  upon  trust ;  but  a  few  years  afterwards,  Homer,  the 
book,  made  its  appearance  in  Italy,  and  Petrarch,  in  a  transport, 
Hit  it  upon  his  book-shelves,  where  he  adored  it,  like  "  the  un- 
known God."  Petrarch  ought  to  be  the  god  of  the  biblif)maniacs, 
r»r  he  was  a  collector  and  a  man  of  genius,  which  is  a  union 
that  does  not  often  happen.  He  copied  out,  with  his  own  precious 
hand,  the  manuscripts  he  rescued  from  time,  and  then  produced 

3.3* 


144  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  lxhi 

others  for  time  to  reverence.  With  his  head  upon  a  book  he 
died.  Boccaccio,  his  friend,  was  another;  nor  can  we  look  upon 
the  longest  and  most  tiresome  works  he  wrote  (for  he  did  write 
some  tiresome  ones,  in  spite  of  the  gaiety  of  his  Decameron), 
without  thinking,  that  in  the  resuscitation  of  the  world  of  letters, 
it  must  have  been  natural  to  a  man  of  genius  to  add  to  the  existing 
stock  of  volumes,  at  whatsoever  price.  I  always  pitch  my  com- 
pletest  idea  of  a  lover  of  beoks,  either  in  these  dark  ages,  as 
they  are  called, 

(Cui  cieco  a  torto  il  cieco  volgo  appella) — 

or  in  the  gay  town  days  of  Charles  II.,  or  a  little  afterwards. 
In  both  times  the  portrait  comes  out  by  the  force  of  contrast. 
In  the  first,  I  imagine  an  age  of  iron  warfare  and  energy,  with 
solitary  retreats,  in  which  the  monk  or  the  hooded  scholar  walks 
forth  to  meditate,  his  precious  volume  under  his  arm.  In  the 
other,  I  have  a  triumphant  example  of  the  power  of  books  and 
wit  to  contest  the  victory  with  sensual  pleasure  : — Rochester, 
staggering  home  to  pen  a  satire  in  the  style  of  Monsieur  Boileau  ; 
Butler,  cramming  his  jolly  duodecimo  with  all  the  learning  that 
he  laughed  at ;  and  a  new  race  of  book  poets  come  up,  who,  in 
spite  of  their  periwigs  and  petit-maitres,  talk  as  romantically  of 
*'  the  bays,"  as  if  they  were  priests  of  Delphos.  It  was  a  vic- 
torious thing  in  books  to  beguile  even  the  old  French  of  their 
egotism,  or  at  least  to  share  it  with  them.  Nature  never  pre- 
tended to  do  as  much.  And  here  is  the  difference  between  the 
two  ages,  or  between  any  two  ages  in  which  genius  and  art 
predominate.  In  the  one,  books  are  loved  because  they  are  the 
records  of  nature  and  her  energies  ;  in  the  other,  because  they 
are  the  records  of  those  records,  or  evidences  of  the  importance 
of  the  individuals,  and  proofs  of  our  descent  in  the  new  and 
imperishable  aristocracy.  This  is  the  reason  why  rank  (with 
few  exceptions)  is  so  jealous  of  literature,  and  loves  to  appro- 
priate or  withhold  the  honors  of  it,  as  if  they  were  so  many  toys 
and  ribbons,  like  its  own.  It  has  an  instinct  that  the  two  preten- 
sions are  incompatible.  When  Montaigne  (a  real  lover  of  books) 
affected  the  order  of  St.  Michael,  and  pleased  himself  with  pos- 
sessing that  fugitive  little  piece  of  importance,  he  did  it  because 


CHAP.  LXin.}  MY  BOOKS  145 

he  would  pretend  to  be  above  nothing  that  he  really  felt,  or  tha( 
was  felt  by  men  in  general ;  but  at  the  same  time  he  vindicated 
his  natural  superiority  over  this  weakness  by  praising  and  lovmg 
all  higher  and  lasting  things,  and  by  placing  his  best  glory  in 
doing  homage  to  the  geniuses  that  had  gone  before  him.  He  did 
not  endeavor  to  think  that  an  immortal  renown  was  a  fashion, 
like  that  of  the  cut  of  his  scarf;  or  that  by  under-valuing  the 
one,  he  should  go  shining  down  to  posterity  in  the  other,  perpetual 
lord  of  Montaigne  and  of  the  ascendant. 

There  is  a  period  of  modern  times,  at  which  the  love  of  books 
appears  to  have  been  of  a  more  decided  nature  than  at  either  of 
these — I  mean  the  age  just  before  and  after  the  Reformation,  or 
rather  all  that  period  when  book-writing  was  confined  to  the 
learned  languages.  Erasmus  was  the  god  of  it.  Bacon,  a  mighty 
book-man,  saw,  among  his  other  sights,  the  great  advantage  of 
loosening  the  vernacular  tongue,  and  wrote  both  Latin  and  English. 
I  allow  this  is  the  greatest  closeted  age  of  books  ;  of  old  scholars 
sitting  in  dusty  studies;  of  heaps  of  "illustrious  obscure,"  ren- 
dering themselves  more  illustrious  and  more  obscure  by  retreat- 
ing from  the  "thorny  queaches  "  of  Dutch  and  German  names 
into  the  "  vacant  interlunar  caves"  of  appellations  Latinised  or 
translated.  I  think  I  see  all  their  volumes  now  filling  the  shelves 
of  a  dozen  German  convents.  The  authors  are  bearded  men, 
sitting  in  old  wood-cuts,  in  caps  and  gowns,  and  their  books  are 
dedicated  to  princes  and  statesmen,  as  illustrious  as  themselves. 
My  old  friend  Wierus,  who  wrote  a  tiiick  book.  Be  PrcRstigiis 
D(£Tfionum,  was  one  of  them,  and  had  a  fancy  worthy  of  his 
sedentary  stomach.  I  will  confess,  once  for  all,  that  I  have  a 
liking  for  them  all.  It  is  my  link  with  the  bibliomaniacs,  whom 
1  admit  into  our  relationship,  because  my  love  is  large,  and  my 
family  pride  nothing.  But  still  I  take  my  idea  of  books  read 
with  a  gusto,  of  companions  for  bed  and  board,  from  the  tw* 
ages  before-mentioned.  The  other  is  of  too  book-worn  a  des 
cription.  There  must  be  both  a  judgment  and  a  fervor  ;  a  dis- 
crimination  and  a  boyish  eagerness  ;  and  (with  all  due  humility) 
something  of  a  point  of  contact  between  authors  worth  reading 
and  the  reader.  How  can  I  take  Juvenal  into  the  fields,  or 
Valcarenghius  De  AortoR  Aneurismate   to   bed  with   me  ?     How 


140  THE  INDICATOR.  [chai-.  vxiii. 

could  I  expect  to  walk  before  the  face  of  nature  with  the  one ; 
to  tire  my  elbow  properly  with  the  other,  before  I  put  out  my 
candle,  and  turn  round  deliciously  on  the  right  side  ?  Or  how 
could  I  stick  up  Coke  upon  Littleton,  against  something  on  tha 
dinner-table,  and  be  divided  between  a  fresh  paragraph,  and  a 
mouthful  of  salad  ? 

I  take  our  four  great  English  poets  to  have  all  been  fond  of 
reading.  Milton  and  Chaucer  proclaim  themselves  for  hard  sit- 
ters at  books.  Spenser's  reading  is  evident  by  his  learning;  and 
if  there  were  nothing  else  to  show  for  it  in  Shakspeare,  his  re- 
tiring to  his  native  town,  long  before  old  age,  would  be  a  proof 
of  it.  It  is  impossible  for  a  man  to  live  in  solitude  without  such 
assistance,  unless  he  is  a  metaphysician  or  mathematician,  or 
the  dullest  of  mankind  ;  and  any  country  town  would  be  solitude 
to  Shakspeare,  after  the  bustle  of  a  metropolis  and  a  theatre. 
Doubtless  he  divided  his  time  between  his  books,  and  his  bowl- 
ing-green,  and  his  daughter  Susanna.  It  is  pretty  certain,  also, 
that  he  planted,  and  rode  on  horseback  ;  and  there  is  evidence 
of  all  sorts  to  make  it  clear,  that  he  must  have  occasionally 
joked  with  the  blacksmith,  and  stood  godfather  for  his  neighbors' 
children.  Chaucer's  account  of  himself  must  be  quoted,  for  the 
delight  and  sympathy  of  all  true  readers  — 

And  as  for  me,  though  that  I  can  but  lite, 

On  bookes  for  to  rede  I  me  delite, 

And  to  hem  yeve  I  faith  and  full  credence. 

And  in  mine  herte  have  hem  in  reverence 

So  hertely,  that  there  is  game  none. 

That  fro  my  bookes  maketh  me  to  gone. 

But  it  is  seldome  on  the  holy  dale  ; 

Save  certainly  whan  that  the  month  of  May 

Is  comen,  and  that  I  hear  the  foules  sing, 

And  that  the  floures  ginnen  for  to  spring. 

Farewrell  my  booke  and  my  devocion. 

The  Legend  of  Good  Women. 

And  again,  in  the  second   book  of  his  House  of  Fame,  where 
the  eagle  addresses  him  : — 

Thou  wilt  make 


At  night  full  oft  thine  head  to  ake. 


CHAF  Mm.]  MY  BOOKS.  Ul 

And  in  thy  study  as  thou  writest, 
And  evermore  of  Love  enditest, 
In  honor  of  him  and  his  praisings. 
And  in  his  folkes  furtherings. 
And  in  his  matter  all  devisest, 
And  not  hinj  ne  his  folke  despisest. 
Although  thou  mayst  go  in  the  daun«e 
Of  hem,  that  him  list  not  advance ; 
Therefore  as  I  said,  ywis, 
Jupiter  considreth  well  this. 
And  also,  beausire,  of  other  things ; 
That  is,  thou  hast  no  tidings 
Of  Loves  folke,  if  they  be  glade, 
Ne  of  nothing  else  that  God  made, 
And  not  only  fro  ferre  countree. 
But  no  tidings  common  to  thee, 
Not  of  thy  very  neighboris, 
That  dwelien  almost  at  thy  dores  ; 
Thou  hearest  neither  that  ne  this. 
For  whan  thy  labor  all  done  is. 
And  hast  made  all  thy  rekenings,* 

nstead  of  rest  and  of  new  things. 
Thou  goest  home  to  thine  house  anone. 
And  all  so  dombe  as  anie  stone. 
Thou  sittest  at  another  booke, 

Till  fully  dazed  is  thy  looke. 

After  I  think  of  the  bookishness  of  Chaucer  and  Milton,  1 
always  make  a  great  leap  to  Prior  and  Fenton.  Prior  was  first 
noticed,  when  a  boy,  by  Lord  Dorset,  sitting  in  his  uncle's 
tavern,  and  reading  Horace.  He  describes  himself,  years  after, 
when  Secretary  of  Embassy  at  the  Hague,  as  taking  the  same 
author  with  him  in  the  Saturday's  chaise,  in  which  he  and  his 
mistress  used  to  escape  from  town  cares  into  the  country,  to  the 
admiration  of  Dutch  beholders.  Fenton  was  a  martyr  to  con- 
tfnted  scholarship  (including  a  sirloin  and  a  bottle  of  wine),  and 
died  among  his  books,  of  inactivity.  "  He  rose  late,"  says  John- 
son, "  and  when  he  had  risen,  sat  down  to  his  books  and  papers." 
A  woman  that  once  waited  on  him  in  a  lodging,  told  him,  as  she 
said,  that  he  would  "  lie  a-bed  and  be  fed  with  a  spoon."  He 
must  have  had  an  enviable  liver,  if  he  was  happy,  1  must  own 
(if  my  conscience  would  let  me),  that  I  should  like  to  lead,  hail 
•  Chaucer  at  this  time  had  an  office  under  the  government. 


'*»  THE  INDICATOR  chap.  Lira. 

the  year,  just  such  a  life  (women  included,  though  not  that 
woman),  the  other  half  being  passed  in  the  fields  and  woods,  with 
a  cottage  just  big  enough  to  hold  us.  Dacier  and  his  wife  had 
a  pleasant  time  of  it ;  both  fond  of  books,  both  scholars,  both 
amiable,  both  wrapped  up  in  the  ancient  world,  and  helping  one 
another  at  their  tasks.  If  they  were  not  happy,  matrimony 
would  be  a  rule  even  without  an  exception.  Pope  does  not  strike 
me  as  being  a  bookman  ;  he  was  curious  rather  than  enthusi- 
astic ;  more  nice  than  wise  ;  he  dabbled  in  modern  Latin  poe- 
try, which  is  a  bad  symptom.  Swift  was  decidedly  a  reader ; 
the  Tale  of  a  Tub,  in  its  fashion  as  well  as  substance,  is  the 
work  of  a  scholarly  wit ;  the  Battle  of  the  Books  is  the  fancy  of 
a  lover  of  libraries.  Addison  and  Steele  were  too  much  given 
up  to  Button's  and  the  town.  Periodical  writing,  though  its  de- 
mands seem  otherwise,  is  not  favorable  to  reading ;  it  becomes 
too  much  a  matter  of  business,  and  will  either  be  attended  to  at 
the  expense  of  the  writer's  books,  or  books,  the  very  admonishers 
of  his  industry,  will  make  him  idle.  Besides,  a  periodical  work, 
to  be  suitable  to  its  character,  and  warrant  its  regular  recur- 
rence, must  involve  something  of  a  gossiping  nature,  and  pro- 
ceed upon  experiences  familiar  to  the  existing  community,  or  at 
least  likely  to  be  received  by  them  in  consequence  of  some  pre- 
vious tinge  of  inclination.  You  do  not  pay  weekly  visits  to  your 
friends  to  lecture  them,  whatever  good  you  may  do  their  minds. 
There  will  be  something  compulsory  in  reading  the  Ramblers, 
as  there  is  in  going  to  church.  Addison  and  Steele  undertook 
to  regulate  the  minor  morals  of  society,  and  effected  a  world  of 
good,  with  which  scholarship  had  little  to  do.  Gray  was  a 
bookman ;  he  wished  to  be  always  lying  on  sofas,  reading 
"  eternal  new  novels  of  Crebillon  and  Marivaux."  This  is  a 
true  hand.  The  elaborate  and  scientific  look  of  the  rest  of  his 
reading  was  owing  to  the  necessity  of  employing  himself:  he 
had  not  health  and  spirits  for  the  literary  voluptuousness  he  de- 
sired. Collins,  for  the  same  reason,  could  not  employ  himself; 
he  was  obliged  to  dream  over  Arabian  tales,  to  let  the  lifht  of 
the  supernatural  world  half  in  upon  his  eyes.  "  He  loved,"  as 
Johnson  says  (in  that  strain  of  music,  inspired  by  tenderness), 
"  fairies,  genii,  giants,   and   monsters ;    he   delighted  to   rovo 


CHAP.  Lxiii.]  MY  BOOKS.  14J 

through  the  meanders  of  enchantment,  to  gaze  on  the  magnifi- 
cence of  golden  palaces,  to  repose  by  the  waterfalls  of  Elysian 
gardens."  U  Collins  had  had  a  better  constitution,  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  he  would  have  written  his  projected  work  upon  the 
Restoration  of  Literature,  fit  as  he  was  by  scholarship  for  the 
task,  but  he  would  have  been  the  greatest  poet  since  the  days  of 
Milton.  If  his  friend  Thomas  Warton  had  had  a  little  more  of 
his  delicacy  of  organization,  the  love  of  books  would  almost  have 
made  him  a  poet.  His  edition  of  the  minor  poems  of  Milton  is  a 
wilderness  of  sweets.  It  is  the  only  one  in  which  a  true  lover 
of  the  original  can  pardon  an  exuberance  of  annotation  ;  though 
I  confess  I  am  inclined  enough  to  pardon  any  notes  that  resemble 
it,  however  numerous.  The  "  builded  rhyme  "  stands  at  the 
top  of  the  page,  like  a  fair  edifice  with  all  sorts  of  flowers  and 
fresh  waters  at  its  foot.  The  young  poet  lives  there,  served  by 
the  nymphs  and  fauns. 

Hinc  atque  hinc  glomerantur  Oreades. 
Hue  ades,  o  formose  puer  :  tibi  lilia  plenis 
Ecce  ferunt  nymphae  calathis :  tibi  Candida  Nais 
Pallentes  violas  et  summa  papavera  carpens, 
Narcissum  et  florem  jungit  bene  olentis  auethi. 

Among  the  old  writers  I  must  not  forget  Ben  Jonson  and 
Donne.  Cowley  has  been  already  mentioned.  His  boyish  love 
of  books,  like  all  the  other  inclinations  of  his  early  life,  stuck  to 
him  to  the  last ;  which  is  the  greatest  reward  of  virtue.  I  would 
mention  Izaak  Walton,  if  I  had  not  a  grudge  against  him.  His 
brother  fishermen,  the  divines,  were  also  great  fishers  of  books. 
I  have  a  grudge  against  them  and  their  divinity.  They  talk 
much  of  the  devil  and  divine  right,  and  yet  forget  what  Shak- 
speare  says  of  the  devil's  friend  Nero,  that  he  is  "  an  angler  in 
the  lake  of  darkness."  Selden  was  called  "  the  walking  library 
of  our  nation."  It  is  not  the  pleasantest  idea  of  him  ;  but  the 
library  included  poetry  and  wit,  as  well  as  heraldry  and  the 
.fowish  doctors.  His  Table  Talk  is  equally  pithy  and  pleasant, 
and  truly  worthy  of  the  name,  for  it  implies  other  speakers. 
Indeed  it  was  actually  what  it  is  called,  and  treasured  up 
by    his    friends.      Selden    wrote    complimentary    verses    to    his 


150  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  lxiu. 

friends  the  poets,  and  a  commentary  on  Drayton  s  Polyolbion. 
Drayton  was  himself  a  reader,  addicted  to  all  the  luxuries  of 
scholarship.  Chapman  sat  among  his  books,  like  an  astrologer 
among  his  spheres  and  altitudes. 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  reflect,  that  all  these  lovers  of  books 
have  themselves  become  books  !  What  better  metamorphosis 
could  Pythagoras  have  desired  !  How  Ovid  and  Horace  ex- 
ulted in  anticipating  theirs  !  And  how  the  world  have  justified 
their  exultation  !  They  had  a  right  to  triumph  over  brass  and 
marble.  It  is  the  only  visible  change  which  changes  no  farther; 
which  generates,  and  yet  is  not  destroyed.  Consider:  minds 
themselves  are  exhausted  ;  cities  perish  ;  kingdoms  are  swept 
away,  and  man  weeps  with  indignation  to  think  that  his  own 
body  is  not  immortal. 

Muoiono  le  citta,  muoiono  i  regni, 

E  1'  uom  d'  esser  mortal  par  che  si  sdegni. 

Yet  this  little  body  of  thought,  that  lies  before  me  in  the  shape 
of  a  book,  has  existed  thousands  of  years,  nor  since  the  invention 
of  the  press  can  anything  short  of  an  universal  convulsion  of 
nature  abolish  it.  To  a  shape  like  this,  so  small  yet  so  compre- 
hensive, so  slight  yet  so  lasting,  so  insignificant  yet  so  venerable, 
turns  the  mighty  activity  of  Homer,  and  so  turning,  is  enabled 
to  live  and  warm  us  for  ever.  To  a  shape  like  this  turns  the 
placid  sage  of  Academus  :  to  a  shape  like  this  the  grandeur  of 
Milton,  the  exuberance  of  Spenser,  the  pungent  elegance  of  Pope, 
and  the  volatility  of  Prior.  In  one  small  room,  like  the  com- 
pressed spirits  of  Milton,  can  be  gathered  together. 

The  assembled  souls  of  all  that  men  held  wise. 

May  I  hope  to  become  the  meanest  of  these  existences  ?  This 
is  a  question  which  every  author  who  is  a  lover  of  books,  asks 
himself  some  time  in  his  life  ;  and  which  must  be  pardoned, 
because  it  cannot  be  helped.  I  know  not.  I  cannot  exclaim 
with  the  poet, 

Oh  that  my  name  were  number'd  among  theirs. 
Then  gladly  would  I  end  my  mortal  daya. 


CHAP.  Lxni.]  MY  BOOKS.  151 

For  my  mortal  days,  few  and  feeble  as  the  rest  of  them  may  be, 
are  of  consequence  to  others.  But  I  should  like  to  remain  visi- 
ble in  this  shape.  The  little  of  myself  that  pleases  myself,  I 
could  wish  to  be  accounted  worth  pleasing  others.  I  should  like 
to  survive  so,  were  it  only  for  the  sake  of  those  who  love  me  in 
private,  knowing  as  I  do  what  a  treasure  is  the  possession  of  a 
friend's  mind,  when  he  is  no  more.  At  all  events,  nothing,  while 
I  live  and  think,  can  deprive  me  of  my  value  for  such  treasures. 
I  can  help  the  appreciation  of  them  while  I  last,  and  love  them 
till  I  die  ;  and  perhaps,  if  fortune  turns  her  face  once  more  in 
kindness  upon  me  before  I  go,  I  may  chance,  some  quiet  day,  to 
lay  my  overheating  temples  on  a  book,  and  so  have  the  death  I 
most  envy. 

34 


153  THE  INDICATOR.  Fchap.  lxit 


CHAPTER  LXIV. 

Bees,   Butterflies,   &c  ,  with   the   consideration  of   a  curious   argument, 
drawn  from  the  government  of  the  hive. 

Alexaxder  said,  that  if  he  were  not  Alexander,  he  should  wish 
lo  be  Diogenes.  Reader,  what  sort  of  animal  would  you  be,  if 
you  were  obliged  to  be  one,  and  were  not  a  man  ? 

Irish  Reader  : — A  woman. 

Oh,  ho  !  The  choice  is  judicious,  but  not  to  the  purpose, 
"youdivil  :" — we  mean,  out  of  the  pale  of  the  species.  Con- 
sider the  question,  dear  readers,  and  answer  it  to  your  friends 
and  consciences.  The  pastime  is  pretty,  and  fetches  out  the 
character.  Nor  is  there  anything  in  it  unworthy  the  dignity  of 
your  humanity,  as  that  liberal  term  may  show  us,  without 
farther  reasons.  Animals  partake  with  us  the  gifts  of  sono-,  and 
beauty,  and  the  affections.  They  beat  us  in  some  things,  as  in 
the  power  of  flight.  The  dove  has  the  wings  of  the  angel. 
The  meanest  reptile  has  eyes  and  limbs,  as  well  as  Nicholas, 
emperor  of  all  the  Russias.  Sir  Philip  Sydney  tells  us  of  a 
riding-master  at  Vienna,  wlio  expatiated  so  eloquently  on  the 
qualities  of  the  noble  animal  he  had  to  deal  with,  that  he  almost 
persuaded  our  illustrious  countryman  to  wish  himself  a  horse. 
A  year  or  two  back,  everybody  in  London  that  had  a  voice,  was 
resolved  upon  being  "a  butterfly,  born  in  a  bower:"  and  Gold- 
smith had  such  a  tendency  to  sympathize  with  the  least  sympa- 
thetic part  of  the  creation,  that  he  took  a  pleasure  in  fancying 
himself  writing  an  autobiography  of  fish.  It  was  the  inconside- 
rate laugh  of  Johnson,  upon  his  mention  of  it,  that  produced  that 
excellent  retort  on  the  Doctor's  grandiosity  of  style  :  "  If  you 
were  to  describe  little  fish  conversing,  you  would  make  them 
talk  like  great  whales." 

How  different  from  the  sensations  of  mankind,  with  its  delicate 
skin  and  apprehensive  fingers,  must  be   those  of  feathered  and 


OHAP.  Lxn.]  BEES,  BUTTERFLIES,  Sfc.  153 

scaled  animals,  of  animals  with  hoofs  and  claws,  and  of  such 
crecUures  as  beetles  and  other  insects,  who  live  in  coats  of  mail, 
have  twenty  feet  apiece,  and  hundreds  of  eyes !  A  writer  who 
should  make  these  creatures  talk,  would  be  forced,  in  spite  of  his 
imagination,  to  write  parts  of  his  account  in  a  jargon,  in  order  to 
typify  what  he  could  not  express.  What  must  be  their  sensa- 
tions when  they  awake  ;  when  they  spin  webs  ;  when  they  wrap 
themselves  up  in  the  chi'ysalis ;  when  they  stick  for  hours  to- 
gether on  a  wall  or  a  pane  of  glass,  apparently  stupid  and  insen- 
sible ?  What  may  not  the  eagle  see  in  the  sky,  beyond  the  ca- 
pabilities of  our  vision  ?  And  on  the  other  hand,  what  possibili- 
ties  of  visible  existence  round  about  them  may  they  not  realize  ; 
what  creatures  not  cognisable  by  our  senses.  There  is  reason 
to  believe  in  the  existence  of  myriads  of  earthly  creatures,  who 
are  not  conscious  of  the  presence  of  man.  Why  may  not  man 
be  unconscious  of  others,  even  at  his  side?  There  are  minute 
insects  that  evidently  know  nothing  of  the  human  hand  that  is 
close  to  them  ;  and  millions  in  water  and  in  air  that  apparently 
can  have  no  conception  of  us.  As  little  may  our  five  senses  be 
capable  of  knowing  others.  But  what,  it  may  be  asked,  is  the 
good  of  these  speculations!  To  enlarge  knowledge,  and  vivify 
the  imagination.  The  universe  is  not  made  up  of  hosiery  and 
the  three  per  cents. ;  no,  nor  even  of  the  Court  Guide. 

Sir  Thomas  Browne  would  not  have  thought  it  beneath  him 
to  ask  what  all  those  innumerable  little  gentry  (we  mean  the  in- 
sects) are  about,  between  our  breakfast  and  dinner;  how  the 
time  passes  in  the  solitudes  of  America,  or  the  depths  of  the 
Persian  gulf;  or  what  they  are  doing  even,  towards  three  in  the 
afternoon,  in  the  planet  Mercury.  Without  going  so  far  as  that 
for  an  enlargement  of  our  being,  it  will  do  us  no  harm  to  sym- 
pathize with  as  many  creatures  as  we  can.  It  gives  us  the 
privilege  of  the  dervise,  who  could  pitch  himself  into  the  animala 
he  killed,  and  become  a  stag  or  a  bird.  We  know  not  what 
sort  of  a  fish  Goldsmith  could  have  made  of  himself.  La  Fon- 
taine's animals  arc  all  La  Fontaine,  at  h^ast  in  their  way  of  talk- 
ing. As  far  as  luxury  goes,  and  a  total  absence  from  Iiuinan 
cares,  nobody  has  painted  animal  enjoyment  better  than  the 
most  luxurious  of  poets,  Spenser,  in  the  description  of  his  Butter- 


154  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  lxiv 

fly.  La  Fontaine  called  himself  the  Butterfly  of  Parnassus; 
but  we  defy  him  to  have  produced  anything  like  the  abundance 
and  continuity  of  the  following  picture,  which  is  exuberant  to  a 
degree  that  makes  our  astonishment  run  over  in  laughter.  It 
seems  as  if  it  would  never  leave  off.  We  quote  the  whole  of  it, 
both  on  this  account,  and  because  we  believe  it  to  be  unique  of 
the  kind.  Ovid  himself  is  not  so  long  nor  so  fine  in  any  one  of 
his  descriptions,  which  are  also  not  seldom  misplaced — a  charge 
that  does  not  attach  here  :  and  Marino,  another  exuberant  genius 
of  the  south  of  Italy,  is  too  apt  to  run  the  faults  of  Ovid  to  seed, 
without  having  some  of  his  good  qualities.  Spenser  is  describing 
a  butterfly,  bound  upon  his  day's  pleasure.  A  common  observer 
sees  one  of  these  beautiful  little  creatures  flutter  across  a  gar- 
den, thinks  how  pretty  and  sprightly  it  is,  and  there  his  observa- 
tion  comes  to  an  end.  Now  mark  what  sort  of  report  a  poet  can 
give  in,  even  of  the  luxuries  of  a  fly  : — 

Thus  the  fresh  Clarion,  being  readie  dight. 

Unto  his  journey  did  himselfe  addresse, 
And  with  good  speed  began  to  take  his  flight 

Over  the  fields,  in  his  frank e  lustinesse  ; 
And  all  the  champaine  o'er  he  soared  light. 

And  all  the  countrey  wide  he  did  possesse. 
Feeding  upon  their  pleasures  bounteouslie. 
That  none  gainsaid,  nor  none  did  him  envie. 

f'he  woods,  the  rivers,  and  the  medowes  greene, 
With  his  aire-cutting  wings  he  measured  wide, 

Ve  did  he  leave  the  mountaines  bare  unseene, 
Nor  the  ranke  grassie  fennes  delights  untride. 

But  none  of  these,  however  sweet  they  beene, 
Mote  please  his  fancie,  nor  him  cause  f  abide: 

His  choicefull  sense  with  every  change  doth  flit : 

No  common  things  may  please  a  wavering  wit 

To  the  gay  gardins  his  unstaid  desire 

Him  wholly  carried,  to  refresh  his  sprighta  : 

There  lavish  Nature,  in  her  best  attire, 

Powres  forth  sweet  odors  and  alluring  sights  ; 

And  Arte,  with  her  contending,  doth  aspire 
T'excell  the  naturall  with  made  delights : 


OHkr.  Lxir.]  BEES,  BUTTERFLIES,  ^-c.  lai 

And  all,  that  faire  or  pleasant  may  be  found, 
In  riotoxis  excesse  doth  there  abound. 

There  he  arriving,  round  about  doth  flie. 
From  bed  to  bed,  from  one  to  t'other  border: 

And  takes  survey,  with  curious  busie  eye, 

Of  every  flowre  and  herbe  there  set  in  order ; 

Now  this,  now  that,  he  tasteth  tenderly. 
Yet  none  of  them  he  rudely  doth  disorder, 

Ne  with  his  feete  their  silken  leaves  deface. 

But  pastures  on  the  pleasures  of  each  place. 

And  evermore,  with  most  varietie. 

And  change  of  sweetness  (for  all  change  is  sweet) 

He  casts  his  glutton  sense  to  satisfie. 

Now  sucking  of  the  sap  of  herbe  most  meet. 

Or  of  the  dew,  which  yet  on  them  does  lie; 
Now  in  the  same  bathing  his  tender  feet  : 

And  then  he  percheth  on  some  branch  thereby. 

To  weather  him,  and  his  moyst  wings  to  dry. 

And  then  again  he  turneth  to  his  play. 
To  spoil  the  pleasures  of  that  paradise  ; 

The  wholesome  sage,  the  lavender  still  gray. 
Rank-smelling  rue,  and  cummin  good  for  eyes. 

The  roses  raigning  in  the  pride  of  May, 
Sharp  hyssop  good  for  green  wounds  remedies, 

Faire  marigolds,  and  bees-alluring  thyme. 

Sweet  marjoram,  and  daysies  decking  prime. 

Cool  violets,  and  orpine  growing  still, 

Embathed  balm,  and  chearful  galingale. 
Fresh  costmarie,  and  breathfuU  camomill. 

Dull  poppy,  and  drink-quickening  setuale, 
Veyne-healing  verven,  and  head-purging  dill, 

Sound  savorie,  and  basil  hartie-hale. 
Fat  coleworts,  and  comforting  perseline. 
Cool  lettuce,  and  refreshing  rosmarine; 

And  whatso  else  of  vertue  good  or  ill, 

Grew  in  this  gard'in,  fetched  from  far  away. 

Of  every  one  he  takes,  and  t  istes  at  will, 
And  on  their  pleasures  greedily  doth  prey. 

Then  when  he  hath  both  plaid,  and  fed  at  fill. 
In  the  wnrrne  sunne  ho  dot))  hiinselfo  embay. 

34? 


130  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  uht 

And  there  him  rests  in  riotous  suffi,iaunce 
Of  all  his  gladfulness,  and  kingly  joyaunee. 

Nothing,  it  might  be  supposed,  could  be  said  after  this;  and 
yet  the  poet  strikes  up  a  question,  in  a  tone  like  a  flourish  of 
trumpets,  after  this  royal  dinner  : — 

"  What  more  felicitie  can  fall  to  creature. 
Than  to  enjoy  delight  with  libertie 
And  to  be  lord  of  all  the  works  of  JVatttre  ? 

To  reignc  in  the  aire  from  th'  earth  to  highest  skie, 
To  feed  on  flowers,  and  weedes  of  glorious  feature  ? 

To  take  whatever  thing  doth  please  the  eye  ? 
Who  rests  not  pleased  with  such  happiness. 
Well  worthy  he  to  taste  of  wretchedness." 

Amen,  thou  most  satisfying  of  poets!  But  when  are  human  be- 
ings to  be  as  well  off  in  that  matter  as  the  butterflies  ?  or  how 
are  you  to  make  them  content,  should  the  time  come  when  they 
have  nothing  to  earn  ?  However,  there  is  a  vast  deal  to  be 
learned  from  the  poet's  recommendation,  before  we  need  ask 
either  of  those  questions.  We  may  enjoy  a  great  deal  more  in- 
nocent "  delight  with  liberty  "  than  we  are  in  the  habit  of  doing  ; 
and  may  be  lords,  if  not  of  "  all  the  works  of  nature,"  of  a  great 
many  green  fields  and  reasonable  holidays.  It  seems  a  mighty 
thing  to  call  a  butterfly  "  lord  of  all  the  works  of  nature.  Many 
lords,  who  have  pretensions  to  be  butterflies,  have  no  pretensions 
as  wide  as  those.  And,  doubtless,  there  is  a  pleasant  little  lurk- 
ing of  human  pride  and  satire  in  the  poet's  eye,  notwithstanding 
his  epical  impartiality,  when  he  talks  thus  of  the  universal  empire 
of  his  hero.  And  yet  how  inferior  are  the  grandest  inanimate 
works  of  nature,  to  the  least  thing  that  has  life  in  it  !  The  oaks 
are  mighty,  and  the  hills  mightier  ;  yet  that  little  participation 
of  the  higher  spirit  of  vitality,  which  gifts  the  butterfly  with  lo- 
comotion, renders  him  unquestionable  lord  of  the  oaks  and  the 
hills.  He  does  what  he  pleases  with  them,  and  leaves  them  with 
a  spurn  of  his  foot. 

Another  beauty  to  be  noted  in  the  above  luxurious  lines,  is  the 
fine  sense  with  which  the  poet  makes  his  butterfly  fond  of  things 
not  very  pleasant  to  our  human  apprehension — such  as  bitter 


CHAP.  Lxiv.]  BEES,  BUTTERFLIES,  &c.  157 

herbs,  and  "  rank,  grassy  fens."  And  like  a  right  great  poet, 
he  makes  no  apology  for  saying  so  much  about  so  little  a  crea- 
ture.  Man  may  be  made  a  very  little  creature  to  a  very  great 
apprehension,  yet  we  know  what  a  world  of  things  he  contains ; 
and  all  who  partake  of  his  senses  are  sharers  of  his  importance. 
The  passions  and  faculties  which  render  us  of  consequence  to 
one  another,  render  the  least  thing  that  breathes  of  consequence 
in  the  eyes  of  the  poet,  who  is  the  man  that  sees  fair  play  among 
all  the  objects  of  the  creation.  A  poetaster  might  be  afraid  to 
lower  his  little  muse,  by  making  her  notice  creatures  hardly  less 
than  herself:  the  greater  the  poet,  the  more  godlike  his  impar- 
tiality. Homer  draws  his  similes,  as  Jupiter  might  have  done, 
from  some  of  the  homeliest  animals.  The  god  made  them,  and 
therefore  would  have  held  them  in  due  estimation  :  the  poet 
{UotriTns,  the  Maker)  remakes  them,  and  therefore  contem- 
plates them  in  a  like  spirit.  Old  Kit  Marlowe,  who,  as  Dray- 
ton says — 

"  Had  in  him  those  brave  sublunary  things 
That  the  first  poets  had," 

ventures,  in  some  play  of  his,  upon  as  true  and  epic  a  simile  as 
ever  was  written,  taken  from  no  mightier  a  sphere  than  one  of 
his  parlor  windows  : — 

"  Untameable  as  flies." 

Imagine  the  endeavor  to  tame  ajlyf  It  is  obvious  that  there 
is  no  getting  at  him  :  he  does  not  comprehend  you :  he  knows 
nothing  about  you :  it  is  doubtful,  in  spite  of  his  large  eyes, 
whether  he  even  sees  you  ;  at  least  to  any  purpose  of  recognition. 
How  capriciously  and  provokingly  he  glides  hither  and  thither  ! 
What  angles  and  diagrams  he  describes  in  his  locomotion,  seem- 
ingly without  any  purpose  !  He  will  peg  away  at  your  sugar, 
but  stop  him  who  can  when  he  has  done  with  it.  Thumping 
(if  you  could  get  some  fairy-stick  that  should  do  it  without  kill- 
ing) would  have  no  effect  on  a  creature,  who  shall  bump  his  head 
half  the  morning  against  a  pane  of  glass,  and  never  learn  that 
there  is  no  gettinL'  through  it.     Solitary  imprisonment  would  be 


158  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  lxiv 

Lost  on  the  incomprehensible  little  wretch  who  can  stand  still 
with  as  much  pertinacity  as  he  can  bustle  about,  and  will  stick 
a  whole  day  in  one  posture.  The  best  thing  to  be  said  of  him  is, 
that  he  is  as  fond  of  cleaning  himself  as  a  cat,  doing  it  much  in 
the  same  manner  ;  and  that  he  often  rubs  his  hands  together  with 
an  appearance  of  great  energy  and  satisfaction. 

After  all,  Spenser's  picture  of  the  butterfly's  enjoyments  is  not 
complete,  entomologically.  The  luxury  is  perfect  j  but  the 
reader  is  not  sure  that  it  is  all  proper  butterfly  luxury,  and  that 
the  man  does  not  mix  with  it.  It  is  not  the  definite,  exclusive, 
and  characteristic  thing  desiderated  by  Goldsmith.  The  butter- 
fly, perhaps,  is  no  fonder  of  "  bathing  his  feet,"  than  we  should 
be  to  stick  in  a  tub  of  treacle.  And  we  ought  to  hear  more  of 
his  antennae  and  his  feathers  (for  his  wings  are  full  of  them), 
and  the  way  in  which  they  modify,  or  become  affected  by  his 
enjoyments. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  inability,  in  these  sympathies  with 
our  fellow-creatures,  to  divest  ourselves  of  an  overplus  of  one's 
human  nature,  gives  them  a  charm  by  the  very  imperfection. 
We  cannot  leave  our  nature  behind  us  when  we  enter  into  theii 
sensations.  We  must  retain  it,  by  the  very  reason  of  our  sym- 
pathy ;  and  hence  arises  a  pleasant  incongruity,  allied  to  other 
mixtures  of  truth  and  fiction.  One  of  the  animals  which  a 
generous  and  sociable  man  would  soonest  become,  is  a  dog.  A 
dog  can  have  a  friend ;  he  has  affections  and  character,  he  can 
enjoy  equally  the  field  and  the  fire-side  ;  he  dreams,  he  caresses, 
he  propitiates ;  he  offends  and  is  pardoned  ;  he  stands  by  you  in 
adversity  ;  he  is  a  good  fellow.  We  would  sooner  be  a  dog  than 
many  of  his  masters.  And  yet  what  lover  of  dogs,  or  con- 
temner of  his  own  species,  or  most  trusting  reader  of  Ovid,  could 
think  with  comfort  of  suddenly  falling  on  all  fours,  and  scamper- 
ing about  with  his  nose  to  the  ground  !  Who  vv^ould  like  to  lap 
when  he  was  thirsty ;  or,  as  Marvell  pretended  his  hungry  poe 
did— 

"  With  griesly  tongue  to  dart  the  passing  flies  ?" 

Swift  might  have  fancied,  when  he  wrote  his  Houhhynnms,  that 
he  couM   fain  have  been  a  horse  :   vet  he  was  obliCTed   to  take 


CHAP.  Lxiv.]  BEES,  BUTTERFLIES,  &.c.  loG 

human  virtues  along  with  him,  even  to  adorn  his  rebukers  of 
humanity  ;  and  in  fancying  ourself  a  horse  after  his  fashion, 
who  can  contemplate  with  satisfaction  the  idea  of  trotting  to  an 
evenmg  party  in  a  paddock,  inviting  them  to  a  dinner  of  oats,  or 
rubbing  one's  meditative  chin  with  a  hoof?  The  real  horse  is  a 
beautiful  and  spirited,  but  we  fear  not  a  very  intelligent  or  sensi- 
tive animal,  at  least  not  in  England.  The  Arabian,  brought  up 
with  his  master's  family,  is  of  another  breeding,  and  seems  to 
attain  to  higher  faculties;  but  in  Europe  the  horse  appears  to  be 
content  with  as  few  ideas  as  a  domestic  animal  can  well  have 
Who  would  like  to  stand  winking,  as  he  does  for  hours,  at  a 
man's  door,  moving  neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left  ?  There  is 
some  companionship  in  a  coach-horse ;  and  old  "  Indicator" 
readers  know  the  respect  we  entertain  on  that  account  for  the 
veriest  hacks:  but  it  would  be  no  stretch  of  ambition  in  the 
greatest  lover  of  animals  to  prefer  being  a  horse  to  any  other. 
One  of  its  pleasantest  occupations  would  be  carrying  a  lady  ; 
but  then,  pleasant  as  it  would  be  to  us,  humanly,  we  should  be 
dull  to  it,  inasmuch  as  we  were  a  horse.  A  monkey  is  too  like 
a  man  in  some  things  to  be  endurable  as  an  identification  with  us. 
We  shudder  at  the  humiliation  of  the  affinity.  A  monkey,  in  his 
feather  and  red  jacket,  as  he  is  carried  about  the  streets,  eager- 
faced  yet  indifferent — looks  like  a  melancholy,  little,  withered 
old  man,  cut  down  to  that  miniature  size  by  some  freak  of  the 
supernatural.  What  say  you,  reader,  to  being  a  hog  ?  Horri- 
ble !  You  could  not  think  of  it : — you  are  too  great  a  lover  of 
the  graces  and  the  green  fields.  True  ; — yet  there  are  not  a 
few  respectable,  perhaps  even  reverend  personages,  who,  to 
judge  from  their  tastes  in  ordinary,  would  have  no  such  horror. 
Next  to  eating  pork,  they  may  surely  think  there  would  be  a 
pleasure  in  pork,  eating.  Sheep,  goats,  cattle  of  all  sorts,  have 
their  repulsive  aspect  in  this  question.  Among  all  our  four- 
footed  acquaintances,  the  deer  seem  to  carry  it,  next  the  dog  ; 
their  shapes  are  so  elegant,  and  places  of  resort  so  poetical  ;  yet, 
like  cattle,  their  lives  seem  but  dull  ;  and  there  is  the  huntsman, 
who  is  the  devil.  Fancy  the  being  compelled  to  scamper  away 
from  Tomkins,  one  of  the  greatest  fools  in  existence,  at  the  rate 


160  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap  lxiv 

of  twenty  miles  an  hour,  with  the  tears  running  down  your  face, 
and  your  heart  bursting  ! 

No,  dear  and  grave,  and  at  the  same  time  most  sprightly  and 
miscellaneous  reader,  one  would  rather  be  a  bird  than  a  beast.* 
Birds  neither  offend  us  by  any  revolting  similarity,  nor  repel  us 
by  a  dissimilarity  that  is  frightful ;  their  songs,  their  nests, 
their  courtship,  their  vivacity,  give  them  a  strong  moral  likeness 
to  some  of  our  most  pleasing  characteristics  ;  and  they  have  an 
advantage  over  us,  which  forms  one  of  the  desires  of  our  most 
poetical  dreams — they  fly.  To  be  sure,  in  spite  of  what  is  said 
of  doves  (who,  by  the  way,  are  horribly  jealous,  and  beat  one 
another),  beaks  and  kissing  do  not  go  so  well  together  as  lips  ; 
neither  would  it  be  very  agreeable  to  one's  human  head  to  be 
eternally  jerking  on  this  side  and  that,  as  if  on  guard  against  an 
enemy ;  but  this,  we  suppose,  only  takes  place  out  of  the  nest, 
and  in  the  neighborhood  of  known  adversaries.  The  songs,  the 
wings,  the  flight,  the  rising  of  the  lark,  the  luxurious  wakeful- 
ness of  the  nightingale,  the  beauty  of  a  bird's  movements,  his 
infantine  quickness  of  life,  are  all  charming  to  the  imagination. 
"  O  that  I  had  the  wings  of  a  dove  !"  said  the  royal  poet  in  his 
aflliction  ;  "  then  would  I  fly  away,  and  be  at  rest  !"  He  did  not 
think  only  of  the  "  wings  "  of  the  dove  ;  he  thought  of  its  nest, 
its  peacefulness,  its  solitude,  its  white  freedom  from  the  soil  of 
care  and  cities,  and  wished  to  be  the  dove  itself. 

It  has  been  thought,  however,  that  of  all  animated  creation, 
the  bees  present  the  greatest  moral  likeness  to  man  ;  not  only 
because  they  labor,  and  lay  up  stores,  and  live  in  communities, 
but  because  they  have  a  form  of  government  and  a  monarchy. 
Virgil  immortalised  them  after  a  human  fashion.  A  writer  in 
the  time  of  Elizabeth,  probably  out  of  compliment  to  the  Virgin 
Queen,  rendered  them  dramatis  perso7ice,  and  gave  them  a  whole 
play  to  themselves.  Above  all,  they  have  been  held  up  to  us, 
not  only  as  a  likeness,  but  as  "  a  great  moral  lesson  ;"  and  this, 
not  merely  with  regard  to  the  duties  of  occupation,  but  the  form 
of  their  polity.  A  monarchical  government,  it  is  said,  is  natural 
to  man,  because  it  is  an  instinct  of  nature  :  the  very  bees  have  it. 

*  Since  writing  this,  I  have  a  doubt  in  favor  of  the  squirrel. 


CHAP   Lxiv.]  BEES,  BUTTERFLIES,  &c.  16' 

It  may  be  worth  while  to  inquire  a  moment  into  the  value  of 
this  argument ;  not  as  affecting  the  right  and  title  of  our  Sove- 
reign Lord  King  William  the  Fourth  (whom,  with  the  greatest 
sincerity,  we  hope  God  will  preserve  !),  but  for  its  own  sake,  aa 
well  as  for  certain  little  collateral  deductions.  And,  in  the  first 
place,  we  cannot  but  remark,  how  unfairly  the  animal  creation 
are  treated,  with  reference  to  the  purposes  of  moral  example. 
We  degrade  or  exalt  them,  as  it  suits  the  lesson  we  desire  to 
inculcate.  If  we  rebuke  a  drunkard  or  a  sensualist,  we  think 
we  can  say  nothing  severer  to  him  than  to  recommend  him  not 
to  make  a  "  beast  of  himself;"  which  is  very  unfair  towards  the 
beasts,  who  are  no  drunkards,  and  behave  themselves  as  Nature 
intended.  A  horse  has  no  habit  of  drinking  ;  he  does  not  get  a 
red  face  with  it.  The  stag  does  not  go  reeling  home  to  his  wives. 
On  the  other  hand,  we  are  desired  to  be  as  faithful  as  a  dog,  aa 
bold  as  a  lion,  as  tender  as  a  dove  ;  as  if  the  qualities  denoted  by 
these  epithets  were  not  to  be  found  among  ourselves.  But  above 
all,  the  bee  is  the  argument.  Is  not  the  honey-bee,  we  are 
asked,  a  wise  animal  ? — We  grant  it. — "  Doth  he  not  improve 
each  passing  hour  ?" — He  is  pretty  busy,  it  must  be  owned — as 
much  occupied  at  eleven,  twelve,  and  one  o'clock,  as  if  his  life 
depended  on  it. — Does  he  not  lay  up  stores  ? — He  does. — Is  he 
not  social  ? — Does  he  not  live  in  communities  ? — There  can  be 
doubt  of  it. — Well,  then,  he  has  a  monarchical  government ;  and 
does  not  that  clearly  show  that  a  monarchy  is  the  instinct  of 
nature  ?  Does  it  not  prove,  by  an  unerring  rule,  that  the  only 
form  of  government  in  request  among  the  obeyers  of  instinct,  is 
the  only  one  naturally  fitted  for  man  ? 

In  answering  the  spirit  of  this  question,  we  shall  not  stop  to 
inquire  how  far  it  is  right  as  to  the  letter,  or  how  many  different 
forms  of  polity  are  to  be  found  among  other  animals,  such  as  the 
crows,  the  beavers,  the  monkeys  ;  neither  shall  we  examine  how 
far  instinct  is  superior  to  reason,  or  why  the  example  of  man 
himself  is  to  go  for  nothing.  We  will  take  for  granted,  that  the 
bee  is  tlie  wisest  animal  of  all,  and  that  it  is  a  judicious  thing 
to  consider  his  manners  and  customs,  with  reference  to  their 
adoption  by  his  inferiors,  who  keep  him  in  hives.  This  naturally 
lead  us  to  inquire,  whether  we  could  not  frame  all  our  systems 


162  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap.  Lxir 

of  life  after  the  same  fashion.  We  are  busy,  like  the  bee;  we 
are  gregarious,  like  him  ;  we  make  provision  against  a  rainy 
day  ;  we  are  fond  of  flowers  and  the  country ;  we  occasionally 
sting,  like  him ;  and  we  make  a  great  noise  about  what  we  do. 
Now,  if  we  resemble  the  bee  in  so  many  points,  and  his  political 
instinct  is  so  admirable,  let  us  reflect  what  we  ought  to  become 
in  other  respects,  in  order  to  attain  to  the  full  benefit  of  his 
example. 

In  the  first  place,  having  chosen  our  monarch  (who,  by  the 
way,  in  order  to  complete  the  likeness,  ought  always  to  be  a 
queen — which  is  a  thing  to  which  the  Tories  will  have  no  objec- 
tion), we  must  abolish  our  House  of  Lords  and  Commons  ;  for 
the  bees  have  unquestionably  no  such  institutions.  This  would 
be  a  little  awkward  for  many  of  the  stoutest  advocates  of  the 
monarchical  principle,  who,  to  say  the  truth,  often  behave  as  if 
they  would  much  rather  abolish  the  monarch  than  themselves. 
But  so  it  must  be ;  and  the  worst  of  it  is,  that  although  the 
House  of  Commons  would  have  to  be  abolished,  as  well  as  the 
House  of  Lords,  the  Commons  or  Commonalty  are  nevertheless 
the  only  persons  besides  the  sovereign  who  would  exercise 
power ;  and  these  Commons  would  be  the  working  classes ! 

We  shall  show  this  more  particularly,  and  by  some  very 
curious  examples,  in  a  moment.  Meantime  we  must  dispose  of 
the  Aristocracy  ;  for  though  there  is  no  House  of  Lords  in  a  bee- 
hive, there  is  a  considerable  Aristocracy,  and  a  very  odd  body 
they  are.  We  doubt  whether  the  Dukes  of  Newcastle  and 
Buccleugh  would  like  to  change  places  with  them.  There  is,  it 
is  true,  no  little  resemblance  between  the  Aristocracy  of  the  hive 
and  that  of  human  communities.  They  are  called  Drones,  and 
appear  to  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  feed  and  sleep. 

We  have  just  been  doubting  whether  the  celebrated  phrases, 
fruges  consumere  nati,  born  to  consume  the  fruits  of  the  earth, 
is  in  JuvenaPs  Satires  or  VirgiVs  Georgics,  so  like  in  this  re- 
spect are  the  aristocracy  of  the  bee-hive  and  certain  consumer, 
of  tithes  and  taxes.  At  all  events  they  are  a  body  who  live  on 
tne  labor  of  others. 

"  Armento  ignavo,  e  che  non  vuol  fatica." 


CHAF.  Lxiv.]  BEES,  BUTTERFLIES,  &c.  163 

Bui  vhe  likeness  has  been  too  often  remarked  to  need  dwelling 
upon.  Not  so  two  little  exceptions  to  the  likeness;  namely  the 
occasional  selection  of  a  patriarch  from  their  body  ;  and  the 
massacre  of  every  man  John  of  them  once  a  year !  Yet  of 
these  we  must  not  lose  sight,  if  we  are  to  take  example  of  bee- 
policy.  A  lover,  then,  or  ex-ojicio  husband,  is  occasionally  taken 
out  of  their  number,  and  becomes  Prince  of  Denmark  to  the 
Queen  Anne  of  the  hive,  but  only  for  an  incredibly  short  period, 
and  for  the  sole  purpose  of  keeping  alive  the  nation  ;  for  her 
Majesty  is  a  princess  of  a  very  virtuous  turn  of  mind,  a  pure 
Utilitarian,  though  on  a  throne  ;  and  apparently  has  the  greatest 
indifference,  if  not  contempt,  afterwards,  and  at  all  other  times, 
for  this  singular  court-officer  and  his  peers.  Nay,  there  is  not 
only  reason  to  believe,  that  like  the  fine  lady  in  Congreve, 

"She  stares  upon  the  strange  man's  face 
Like  one  she  ne'er  had  known," 

but  some  are  of  opinion,  that  the  poor  lord  never  recovers  it ! 
He  dies  at  the  end  of  a  few  days,  out  of  sheer  insignificance, 
though  perhaps  the  father  of  no  less  than  twelve  thousand  child- 
ren in  the  space  of  two  months!  It  is  not  safe  for  him  to  have 
known  such  exaltation,  as  was  sometimes  the  case  with  the 
lovers  of  goddesses.  How  the  aristocracy  in  general  feel,  on 
occasion  of  their  brother's  death,  we  have  no  means  of  judging  ; 
hut  we  fancy  them  not  a  little  alarmed,  and  desirous  of  waiving 
the  perilous  honor.  And  yet  they  appear  to  exist  and  to  be  nu 
merous,  solely  in  order  to  eat  and  drink,  and  furnish  this  rare 
quota  of  utility;  for  which  the  community  are  so  little  grateful, 
that  once  a  year  they  hunt  the  whole  body  to  death,  and  kill 
them  with  their  stings.  Drones,  be  it  observed,  have  no  stings; 
they  do  not  carry  swords,  as  the  gentry  once  did  in  Europe, 
when  it  was  a  mark  of  their  rank.  Those,  strange  to  tell !  are 
the  ornaments  of  the  beeworking-classes.  It  is  thought,  in 
Hivedom,  that  they  only  are  entitled  to  have  weapons,  who 
create  property. 

But  we  have  not  yet  got  half  through  the  wonders  which  are 
to  modify  human   conduct  by  the  example  of  this  wise,  Indus- 

35 


164  THE  L'fDICATOR.  [chap,  lxiv 

liions,  and  monarchy-loving  people.  Marvellous  changes  must 
be  effected,  before  we  have  any  general  pretension  to  resemble 
them,  always  excepting  in  the  aristocratic  particular.  Foi 
instance,  the  aristocrats  of  the  hive,  however  unmasculine  in 
their  ordinary  mode  of  life,  are  the  only  males.  The  working- 
classes,  like  the  sovereign,  are  all  females!  How  are  we  to 
manage  this  ?  We  must  convert,  by  one  sudden  metamorphosis, 
the  whole  body  of  our  agricultural  and  manufacturing  popula- 
tion into  women  !  Mrs.  Cobbett  must  displace  iier  husband,  and 
tell  us  all  about  Indian  corn.  There  must  be  not  a  man  in  Not- 
tingham, except  the  Duke  of  Newcastle ;  and  he  trembling, 
lest  the  Queen  should  send  for  him.  The  tailors,  bakers, 
carpenters,  gardeners,  dec,  must  all  be  Mrs.  Tailors  and 
Mrs.  Bakers.  The  very  name  of  John  Smith  must  go  out. 
The  directory  must  be  Amazonian.  This  Commonalty  of 
women  must  also  be,  at  one  and  the  same  time,  the  operatives, 
the  soldiers,  the  virgins,  and  the  legislators  of  the  country ! 
They  must  make  all  we  want,  fight  all  our  enemies,  and  even 
get  up  a  Queen  for  us,  when  necessary  ;  for  the  sovereigns  of 
the  hive  are  often  of  singular  origin,  being  manufactured  !  liter- 
ally "  made  to  order,"  and  that,  too,  by  dint  of  their  eating ! 
They  are  fed  and  stuffed  into  royalty  !  The  receipt  is,  to  take 
any  ordinary  female  bee  in  its  infancy,  put  it  into  a  royal 
cradle  or  cell,  and  feed  it  with  a  certain  kind  of  jelly  ;  upoa 
which  its  shape  alters  into  that  of  sovereignty,  and  her  Majesty 
issues  forth,  royal  by  the  grace  of  stomach.  This  is  no  fable, 
as  the  reader  may  see  on  consulting  any  good  history  of  bees. 
In  general,  several  Queen-bees  are  made  at  a  time,  in  case  of 
accidents ;  but  each,  on  emerging  from  her  department,  seeks 
to  destroy  the  other,  and  one  only  remains  living  in  one  hive. 
The  otliers  depart  at  the  head  of  colonies  like  Dido. 

To  sum  up,  then,  the  condition  of  human  society,  were  it  to 
be  remodelled  after  the  example  of  the  bee,  let  us  conclude 
with  drawing  a  picture  of  the  state  of  our  beloved  country,  so 
modified.  Imprimis,  all  our  working  people  would  be  females, 
wearing    swords,    never    marrying,    and    occasionally    making 


CHAP.  Lxiv.]  BEES,  BUTTERFLIES,  &.c.  165 

queens.  They  would  grapple  with  their  work  in  a  prodigious 
manner,  and  make  a  great  noise. 

Secondly,  our  aristocracy  would  be  all  males,  never  working, 
never  marrying  (except  when  sent  for),  always  eating  or  sleep- 
ing, and  annually  having  their  throats  cut.  The  bee  massacre 
takes  place  in  July,  when  accordingly  all  our  nobility  and 
gentry  would  be  out  of  town,  with  a  vengeance  !  The  women 
would  draw  their  swords,  and  hunt  and  stab  them  all  about  the 
west  end,  till  Brompton  and  Bayswater  would  be  choked  with 
slain. 

Thirdly,  her  Majesty  the  Queen  would  either  succeed  to  a 
quiet  throne,  or,  if  manufactured,  would  have  to  eat  a  prodi- 
gious quantity  of  jelly  in  her  infancy  :  and  so  after  growing 
into  proper  sovereign  condition,  would  issue  forth,  and  begin  her 
reign  either  with  killing  her  royal  sisters,  or  leading  forth  a 
colony  to  America  or  New  South  Wales.  She  would  then  take 
to  husband  some  noble  lord  for  the  space  of  one  calendar  hour, 
and  dismissing  him  to  his  dulness,  proceed  to  lie  in  of  12,000 
little  royal  highnesses  in  the  course  of  the  eight  following 
weeks,  with  others  too  numerous  to  mention  ;  all  which  princely 
generation,  with  little  exception,  would  forthwith  give  up  their 
title,  and  divide  themselves  into  lords  or  working-women,  as  it 
happened  ;  and  so  the  story  would  go  round  to  the  end  of  the 
chapter,  bustling,  working,  and  massacreing.  And  here  ends 
the  sage  example  of  the  Monarchy  of  the  Bees. 

We  must  observe,  nevertheless,  before  we  conclude,  that  how- 
ever ill  and  tragical  the  example  of  the  bees  may  look  for  human 
imitation,  we  are  not  to  suppose  that  the  fact  is  anything  like  so 
melancholy  to  themselves.  Perhaps  it  is  no  evil  at  all,  or  only 
so  for  the  moment.  The  drones,  it  is  true,  seem  to  have  no 
fancy  for  being  massacred  ;  but  we  have  no  reason  to  suppose 
that  they,  or  any  of  the  rest  concerned  in  this  extraordinary 
instinct,  are  aware  of  the  matter  beforehand ;  and  the  same  is 
to  be  said  of  the  combats  between  the  Queen  Bees — they  seem 
to  be  the  result  of  an  irresistible  impulse,  brought  about  by  the 
sudden  pressure  of  a  necessity.  Bees  appear  to  be  very  happy 
during  far  the   greater  oortion  of  their  existence.     A   modern 


166  THE  INDICATOR.  [chap,  lxiv 

Tv^riter,  of  whom  it  is  to  be  lamented  that  a  certain  "wam  of  re 
hnement  stopped  short  his  perceptions,  and  degraded  his  philoso- 
phy from  the  tinally  expedient  into  what  was  fugitively  so,  has 
a  passage  on  this  point,  as  agreeable  as  what  he  is  speaking  of. 
"  A  bee  among  the  flowers  in  spring,"  says  Dr.  Paley,  "  is  one 
of  the  cheerfuUest  objects  that  can  be  looked  upon.  Its  life  ap. 
pears  to  be  all  enjoyment,  so  busy  and  so  pleased." 


THE    COMPAiXIOI 


35* 


THE  COMPANION. 


'  The  first  quality  in  a  Companion  is  Truth." 

Sir  W.  Temple. 


CHAPTER   I. 

An  SartR  upon  Heaven. 

Somebody,  a  little  while  ago,  wrote  an  excellent  article  in  the 
New  Monthly  Magazine  on  "  P ",  'sons  one  would  wish  to  have 
known."  He  should  write  another  on  "Persons  one  could  wish 
to  have  dined  with."  There  is  Rabelais,  and  Horace,  and  the 
Mermaid  roysters,  and  Charles  Cotton,  and  Andrew  Marvell, 
and  Sir  Richard  Steele,  cum  muftis  aliis :  and  for  the  colloquial, 
if  not  the  festive  part,  Swift  and  Pope,  and  Dr.  Johnson,  and 
Burke,  and  Home  Tooke.  What  a  pity  one  cannot  dine  with 
them  all  round !  People  are  accused  of  having  earthly  notions 
of  heaven.  As  it  is  difficult  to  have  any  other,  we  may  be  par- 
doned for  thinking  that  we  could  spend  a  very  pretty  thousand 
years  in  dining  and  getting  acquainted  with  all  the  good  fellows 
un  record  ;  and  having  got  used  to  them,  we  think  we  could 
go  very  well  on,  and  be  content  to  wait  some  other  thousands 
for  a  higher  beatitude.  Oh,  to  wear  out  one  of  the  celestial 
lives  of  a  triple  century's  duration,  and  exquisitely  to  grow  old, 
in  reciprocating  dinners  and  teas  with  the  immortals  of  old  books' 


170  THE  COMPANRN.  [chap,  i 

Will  Fielding  "leave  his  card"  in  the  next  world?  Will 
Berkeley  (an  angel  in  a  wig  and  lawn  sleeves!)  come  to  ask  how 
Utopia  gets  on  ?  Will  Shakspeare  (for  the  greater  the  man,  the 
more  the  good-nature  might  be  expected)  know  by  intuition 
that  one  of  his  readers  (knocked  up  with  bliss)  is  dying  to  see 
him  at  the  A.ngel  and  Turk's  Head,  and  come  lounging  with  his 
hands  in  his  doublet-pockets  accordingly  ? 

It  is  a  pity  that  none  of  the  great  geniuses,  to  whose  lot  it  has 
fallen  to  describe  a  future  state,  has  given  us  his  own  notions  of 
heaven.  Their  accounts  are  all  modified  by  the  national  theo- 
logy ;  whereas  the  Apostle  himself  has  told  us,  that  we  can 
have  no  conception  of  the  blessings  intended  for  us.  "Eye  hath 
not  seen,  nor  ear  heard,"  &c.  After  this,  Dante's  shining  lights 
are  poor.  Milton's  heaven,  with  the  armed  youth  exercising 
themselves  in  military  games,  is  worse.  His  best  Paradise  was 
on  earth,  and  a  very  pretty  heaven  he  made  of  it.  For  our 
parts,  admitting  and  venerating  as  we  do  the  notion  of  a  heaven 
surpassing  all  human  conception,  we  trust  that  it  is  no  presump- 
tion to  hope,  that  the  state  mentioned  by  the  Apostle  is  the  final 
heaven  ;  and  that  we  may  ascend  and  gradually  accustom  our- 
selves to  the  intensity  of  it,  by  others  of  a  less  superhuman  nature. 
Familiar  as  we  are  both  with  joy  and  sorrow,  and  accustomed 
to  surprises  and  strange  sights  of  imagination,  it  is  difficult  to 
fancy  even  the  delight  of  suddenly  emerging  into  a  new  and 
boundless  state  of  existence,  where  everything  is  marvellous, 
and  opposed  to  our  experience.  We  could  wish  to  take  gently 
to  it;  to  be  loosed  not  entirely  at  once.  Our  song  desires  to  be 
"a  song  of  degrees."  Earth  and  its  capabilities — are  these 
nothing?  And  are  they  to  come  to  nothing?  Is  there  no  beau- 
tiful realization  of  the  fleeting  type  that  is  shown  us  ?  No  body 
to  this  shadow  ?  No  quenching  to  this  taught  and  continued 
thirst?  No  arrival  at  these  natural  homes  and  resting-places, 
which  are  so  heavenly  to  our  imaginations,  even  though  they  be 
I)uilt  of  clay,  and  are  situate  in  the  fields  of  our  infancy?  We 
are  becoming  graver  than  we  intended  ;  but  to  return  to  our 
proper  style : — nothing  shall  persuade  us,  for  the  present,  that 
Paradise  Mount,  in  any  pretty  village  in  England,  has  not 
another  Paradise  Mount  to  correspond,  in   some  less  perishing 


CHAP.  I.]  AN  EARTH  UPON  HEAVEN  71 

region ;  that  is  to  say,  provided  anybody  has  set  his  heart  upon 
it : — and  that  we  shall  not  all  be  dining,  and  drinking  tea,  and 
complaining  of  the  weather  (we  mean,  for  its  not  being  perfectly 
blissful)  three  hundred  years  hence,  in  some  snug  interlunar 
spot,  or  perhaps  in  the  moon  itself,  seeing  that  it  is  our  next 
visible  neighbor,  and  shrewdly  suspected  of  being  hill  and  dale. 

It  appears  to  us,  that  for  a  certain  term  of  centuries,  Heaven 
must  consist  of  something  of  this  kind.  In  a  word,  we  cannot 
but  persuade  ourselves,  that  to  realize  everything  that  we  have 
justly  desired  on  earth,  will  be  heaven; — we  mean,  for  that 
period  :  and  that  afterwards,  if  we  behave  ourselves  in  a 
proper  pre-angelical  manner,  we  shall  go  to  another  heaven, 
still  better,  where  we  shall  realize  all  that  we  desired  in  our  first. 
Of  this  latter  we  can  as  yet  have  no  concoption  ;  but  of  the 
former,  we  think  some  of  the  items  may  be  as  follows : — 

Imprimis, — (not  because  friendship  comes  before  love  in  point 
of  degree,  but  because  it  precedes  it,  in  point  of  time,  as  at 
school  we  have  a  male  companion  before  we  are  old  enough  to 
have  a  female^ — Imprimis  then,  a  friend.  He  will  have  the 
same  tastes  and  inclinations  as  ourselves,  with  just  enough  dif- 
ference to  furnish  argument  without  sharpness ;  and  he  will  be 
generous,  just,  entertaining,  and  no  shirker  of  hi3  nectar.  In 
short,  he  will  be  the  best  friend  we  have  had  upon  earth.  We 
shall  talk  together  "of  afternoons;"  and  when  the  Earth  begins 
to  rise  (a  great  big  moon,  looking  as  happy  as  we  know  its 
inhabitants  will  be),  other  friends  will  join  us,  not  so  emphati- 
cally our  friends  as  he,  but  excellent  fellows  all ;  and  we  shall 
read  the  poets,  and  have  some  sphere-music  (if  we  please),  or 
renew  one  of  our  old  earthly  evenings,  picked  out  of  a  dozen 
Christmases. 

Item,  a  mistress.  In  heaven  (not  to  speak  it  profanely)  we 
know,  upon  the  best  authority,  that  people  are  "neither  married 
nor  given  in  marriage ;"  so  that  there  is  nothing  illegal  in  tlie 
term.  (By  the  way,  there  can  be  no  clergymen  there,  if  there 
are  no  official  duties  for  them.  We  do  not  say,  there  will  be 
nobody  who  has  been  a  clergyman.  Berkeley  would  refute  that ; 
and  a  hundred  Welsh  curates.  But  they  would  be  n<'  longer  in 
orders.     They  would  refuse  to  call  themselves  morn  Revercml 


••72  THE  COMPANION.  [chap   i. 

than  their  neighbors.)  Item  then,  a  mistress;  beautiful,  of 
course, — an  angelical  expression, — a  Peri,  or  Houri,  or  what- 
ever shape  of  perfection  you  choose  to  imagine  her,  and  yet  re- 
taining the  likeness  of  the  woman  you  loved  best  on  earth  ;  in 
fact,  she  herself,  but  completed  ;  all  her  good  qualities  made 
perfect,  and  her  defects  taken  away  (with  the  exception  of  one 
or  two  charming  little  angelical  peccadilloes,  which  she  can 
only  get  rid  of  in  a  post-future  state) ;  good-tempered,  laughing, 
serious,  fond  of  everything  about  her  without  detriment  to  hei 
special  fondness  for  yourself,  a  great  roamer  in  Elysian  fields 
and  forests,  but  not  alone  (they  go  in  pairs  there,  as  the  jays  anc/ 
turtle-doves  do  with  us) ;  but  above  all  things,  true  ;  oh,  so  true 
that  you  take  her  word  as  you  would  a  diamond,  nothing  being 
more  transparent,  or  solid,  or  precious.  Between  writing  some 
divine  poem,  and  meeting  our  friends  of  an  evening,  we  shoulc 
walk  with  her,  or  fly  (for  we  should  have  wings,  of  course)  likt 
a  couple  of  human  bees  or  doves,  extracting  delight  from  everj 
flower,  and  with  delight  filling  every  shade.  There  is  some- 
thing too  good  in  this  to  dwell  upon ;  so  we  spare  the  fears  and 
hopes  of  the  prudish.  We  would  lay  her  head  upon  our  heart, 
and  look  more  pleasure  into  her  eyes,  than  the  prudish  or  the 
profligate  ever  so  much  as  fancied. 

Item,  books.  Shakspeare  and  Spenser  should  write  us  new 
ones  !  Think  of  that.  We  would  have  another  Decameron  : 
and  Walter  Scott  (for  he  will  be  there  too; — we  mean  to  beg 
Hume  to  introduce  us)  shall  write  us  forty  more  novels,  all  as 
good  as  the  Scotch  ones ;  and  Radical  as  well  as  Tory  shall 
love  him.  It  is  true,  we  speak  professionally,  when  we  mention 
books. 

We  think,  admitted  to  that  equal  sky, 
The  Arabian  Nights  must  bear  us  company. 

When  Gainsborough  died,  he  expired  in  a  painter's  enthusiasm, 
saying,  "  We  are  ?11  going  to  heaven,  and  Vandyke  is  of  the 
party." — He  had  a  proper  foretaste.  Virgil  had  the  same  light, 
when  he  represented  the  old  heroes  enjoying  in  Elysium  their 
favorite  earthly  pursuits ;  only  one  cannot   help  thinking,  with 


CHAP.  I.]  AN  EARTH  UPON  HEAVEN.  173 

the  natural  modesty  of  reformers,  that  the  taste  in  this  our  inter- 
lunar  heaven  will  be  benefited  from  time  to  time  by  the  know- 
ledge of  new-comers.  We  cannot  well  fancy  a  celestial  ancient 
Briton  delighting  himself  with  painting  his  skin,  or  a  Chinese 
angol  hobbling  a  mile  up  the  Milky  Way  in  order  to  show  her- 
self 1o  advantage. 

For  breakfast,  we  must  have  a  tea  beyond  anything  Chinese. 
Slaves  will  certainly  not  make  the  sugar;  but  there  will  be  cows 
for  the  milk.     One's  landscapes  cannot  do  without  cows. 

For  horses  we  shall  ride  a  Pegasus,  or  Ariosto's  HippogrifF, 
or  Sinbad's  Roc.  We  mean,  for  our  parts,  to  ride  them  all, 
having  a  passion  for  fabulous  animals.  Fable  will  be  no  fable 
then.  We  shall  have  just  as  much  of  it  as  we  like  ;  and  the 
Utilitarians  will  be  astonished  to  find  how  much  of  that  sort  of 
thing  will  be  in  request.  They  will  look  very  odd,  by  the 
bye, — those  gentlemen,  when  they  first  arrive  ;  but  will  soon 
get  used  to  the  delight,  and  find  there  was  more  of  it  in  their 
own  doctrine  than  they  imagined. 

The  weather  will  be  extremely  fine,  but  not  without  such 
varieties  as  shall  hinder  it  from  being  tiresome.  April  will  dress 
the  whole  country  in  diamonds  ;  and  there  will  be  enough  cold 
in  the  winter  to  make  a  fire  pleasant  of  an  evening.  The  fire 
will  be  make  of  sweet-smelling  turf  and  sunbeams ;  but  it  will 
have  a  look  of  coal.  If  we  choose,  now  and  then  we  shall  even 
have  inconveniences. 


174  THE  COMPANION.  [chap.  ii. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Bad  Weather. 

After  longing  these  two  months  for  some  "  real  winter  wea- 
ther," the  public  have  had  a  good  sharp  specimen,  a  little  too 
real.  We  mean  to  take  our  revenge  by  writing  an  article  upon 
it  after  a  good  breakfast,  with  our  feet  at  a  good  fire,  and  in  a 
room  quiet  enough  to  let  us  hear  the  fire  as  well  as  feel  it.  Out- 
side the  casement  (for  we  are  writing  this  in  a  cottage)  the  east- 
wind  is  heard,  cutting  away  like  a  knife  ;  snow  is  on  the  ground; 
there  is  frost  and  sleet  at  once ;  and  the  melancholy  crow  of 
poor  chanticleer  at  a  distance  seems  complaining  that  nobody 
will  cherish  him.  One  imagines  that  his  toes  must  be  cold ; 
and  that  he  is  drawing  comparisons  between  the  present  feeling 
of  his  sides,  and  the  warmth  they  enjoy  next  his  plump  wife  on 
a  perch. 

But  in  the  country  there  is  always  something  to  enjoy.  There 
is  the  silence,  if  nothing  else ;  you  feel  that  the  air  is  healthy ; 
and  you  can  see  to  write.  Think  of  a  street  in  London,  at 
once  narrow,  foggy,  and  noisy ;  the  snow  thawing,  not  because 
the  frost  has  not  returned,  but  because  the  union  of  mud  and 
smoke  prevails  against  it ;  and  then  the  unnatural  cold  sound 
of  the  clank  of  milk-pails  (if  you  are  up  early  enough);  or  if 
you  are  not,  the  chill,  damp,  strawy,  rickety  hackney-coaches 
going  by,  with  fellows  inside  of  them  with  cold  feet,  and  the 
coachman  a  mere  bundle  of  rags,  blue  nose,  and  jolting.  (He'll 
quarrel  with  every  fare,  and  the  passenger  knows  it,  and  will 
resist.  So  they  will  stand  with  their  feet  in  the  mud,  haggling. 
The  old  gentleman  saw  an  extra  charge  of  a  shilling  in  his 
face.)  To  complete  the  misery,  the  pedestrians  kick,  as  they 
go,  those  detestable  flakes  of  united  snow  and  mud  ; — at  least 
they  oug'wt  to  do  so,  to  complete  our  picture  :  and  at  night-time, 


CHAP.  11.]  BAD  WEATHER  175 

people  coming   home   hardly  know  whether  or   not  they  have 
chins. 

But  is  thei'e  no  comfort  then  in  a  London  street  in  such  wea- 
ther ?  Infinite,  if  people  will  but  have  it,  and  families  are 
good-tempered.  We  trust  we  shall  be  read  by  hundreds  of  such 
this  morning.  Of  some  we  are  certain ;  and  do  hereby,  agree- 
ably to  our  ubiquitous  privileges,  take  several  breakfasts  at 
once.  How  pleasant  is  this  rug !  How  bright  and  generous 
the  fire  !  How  charming  the  fair  makers  of  the  tea !  And  how 
happy  that  they  have  not  to  make  it  themselves,  the  drinkers  of 
it !  Even  the  hackney-coachman  means  to  get  double  as  much 
as  usual  to-day,  either  by  cheating  or  being  pathetic :  and  the 
old  gentleman  is  resolved  to  make  amends  for  the  necessity  of 
his  morning  drive,  by  another  pint  of  wine  at  dinner,  and  crum- 
pets with  his  tea.  It  is  not  by  grumbling  against  the  elements  that 
evil  is  to  be  done  away  ;  but  by  keeping  one's-self  in  good  heart 
with  one's  fellow. creatures,  and  remembering  that  they  are  all 
capable  of  partaking  our  pleasures.  The  contemplation  of  pain, 
acting  upon  a  splenetic  temperament,  produces  a  stirring  re- 
former here  and  there,  who  does  good  rather  out  of  spite  against 
wrong,  than  sympathy  with  pleasure,  and  becomes  a  sort  of  dis- 
agreeable angel.  Far  be  it  from  us,  in  the  present  state  of  so- 
ciety, to  wish  that  no  such  existed  !  But  they  will  pardon  us 
for  laboring  in  the  vocation  to  which  a  livelier  nature  calls  us, 
and  drawing  a  distinction  between  the  dissatisfaction  that  ends 
in  good,  and  the  mere  common-place  grumbling  that  in  a  thou- 
sand instances  to  one  ends  in  nothing  but  plaguing  everybody 
as  well  as  the  grumbler.  In  almost  all  cases,  those  who  are  in 
a  state  of  pain  themselves,  are  in  the  fairest  way  for  giving  it ; 
whereas,  pleasure  is  in  its  nature  social.  The  very  abuses  of 
it  (terrible  as  they  sometimes  are)  cannot  do  as  much  harm  as 
the  violations  of  the  common  sense  of  good-humor ;  simply  be- 
cau.se  it  is  its  nature  to  go  with,  and  not  counter  to  humanity. 
The  only  point  to  take  care  of  is,  that  as  many  innocent  sources 
of  pleasure  arc  kept  open  as  possible,  and  alFection  and  imagina- 
tion brought  in  to  show  us  what  they  are,  and  how  surely  all  may 
partake  of  them.     We  are  not  likely  to   forget  that  a  human 

being  is  of  importance,  when  we   can  discern  the  merits  of  so 

.30 


176  THE  COMPANION.  [chap,  n 

small  a  thing  as  a  leaf,  or  a  honey-bee,  or  the  beauty  of  a  flake 
of  snow,  or  the  fanciful  scenery  made  by  the  glowing  coals  in 
a  fire-place.  Professors  of  sciences  may  do  this.  Writers  the 
most  enthusiastic  in  a  good  cause,  may  sometimes  lose  sight  of 
their  duties,  by  reason  of  the  very  absorption  in  their  enthusiasm. 
Imagination  itself  cannot  always  be  abroad  and  at  home  at  the 
same  tim6.  But  the  many  are  not  likely  to  think  too  deeply  of 
anything ;  and  the  more  pleasures  that  are  taught  them  by  dint 
of  an  agreeable  exercise  of  their  reflection,  the  more  they  will 
learn  to  reflect  on  all  around  them,  and  to  endeavor  that  their  re- 
flections may  have  a  right  to  be  agreeable.  Any  increase  of 
the  sum  of  our  enjoyments  almost  invariably  produces  a  wish 
to  communicate  them.  An  over-indulged  human  being  is  ruined 
by  being  taught  to  think  of  nobody  but  himself;  but  a  human 
being,  at  once  gratified  and  made  to  think  of  others,  learns  to 
add  to  his  very  pleasures  in  the  act  of  diminishing  them. 

But  how,  it  may  be  said,  are  we  to  enjoy  ourselves  with  re- 
flection, when  our  very  reflection  will  teach  us  the  quantity  of 
suffering  that  exists  !  How  are  we  to  be  happy  with  breakfast- 
ing and  warming  our  hands,  when  so  many  of  our  fellow-crea- 
tures are,  at  that  instant,  cold  and  hungry? — It  is  no  paradox  to 
answer,  that  the  fact  of  our  remembering  them  gives  us  a  right 
to  forget  them  : — we  mean,  that  "there  is  a  time  for  all  things," 
and  that  having  done  our  duty  at  other  times  in  sympathizing 
with  pain,  we  have  not  only  a  right,  but  it  becomes  our  duty,  to 
show  the  happy  privileges  of  virtue  by  sympathizing  with  plea- 
sure. The  best  person  in  a  holiday-making  party  is  bound  to 
have  the  loveliest  face ;  or  if  not  that,  a  face  too  happy  even  to 
be  lively.  Suppose,  in  order  to  complete  the  beauty  of  it,  that 
the  face  is  a  lady's.  She  is  bound,  if  any  uneasy  reflection 
crosses  her  mind,  to  say  to  herself,  "  To  this  happiness  I  have 
contributed ; — pain  I  have  helped  to  diminish  ;  I  am  sincere, 
and  wish  well  to  everybody ;  and  I  think  everybody  would  be 
as  good  as  I  am,  perhaps  better,  if  society  were  wise.  Now 
society,  I  trust,  is  getting  wiser ;  perhaps  will  beat  all  our  wis- 
dom a  hundred  years  hence ;  and  meanwhile,  I  must  not  show 
that  goodness  is  of  no  use,  but  let  it  realize  all  it  can,  and  be 
as  merry  as  the  youngest."     So  saying,  she  gives  her  hand  to 


CHAP,  n.]  BAD  WEATHER.  171 

a  friend  for  a  new  dance,  and  really  forgets  what  she  has  been 
thinking  of,  in  the  blithe  spinning  of  her  blood.  A  good-hearted 
woman,   in  the  rosy  beauty  of  her  joy,  is  the  loveliest  object 

in .     But  everybody  knows  that. 

Adam  Smith,  in  his  Theory  of  Moral  Sentiments,  has  rebuked 
Thomson  for  his  famous  apostrophe  in  Winter  to  the  "  gay,  li- 
centious  proud  ;"  where  he  says,  that  amidst  their  dances  and 
festivhies  they  little  think  of  tiie  misery  that  is  going  on  in  the 
world  : — because,  observes  the  philosopher,  upon  this  principle 
there  never  could  be  any  enjoyment  in  the  world,  unless  every 
corner  of  it  were  happy  ;  which  would  be  preposterous.  We 
need  not  say  how  entirely  we  agree  with  the  philosopher  in  the 
abstract ;  and  certainly  the  poet  would  deserve  the  rebuke,  had 
he  addressed  himself  only  to  the  "  gay ;"  but  then  his  gay  are 
also  "licentious,"  and  not  only  licentious  but  "  proud."  Now 
we  confess  we  would  not  be  too  squeamish  even  about  the 
thoughtlessness  of  these  gentry,  for  is  not  their  very  thought- 
lessness their  excuse  ?  And  are  they  not  brought  up  in  it,  just 
as  a  boy  in  St.  Giles's  is  brought  up  in  thievery,  or  a  girl  to 
callousness  and  prostitution  ?  It  is  not  the  thoughtless  in  high 
life  from  whom  we  are  to  expect  any  good,  lecture  them  as  we 
may :  and  observe — Thomson  himself  does  not  say  how  cruel 
they  are;  or  what  a  set  of  rascals  to  dance  and  be  merry  in 
spite  of  their  better  knowledge.     He  says, 

"  Ah,  little  think  the  gay,  licentious  proud"— 

and  so  they  do.  And  so  they  will,  till  the  diffusion  of  thought, 
among  all  classes,  flows,  of  necessity,  into  their  gay  rooms  and 
startled  elevations ;  and  forces  them  to  look  out  upon  the  world, 
that  they  may  not  be  lost  by  being  under  the  level. 

We  had  intended  a  very  merry  paper  this  week,  to  bespeak 
the  favor  of  our  new  readers  : — 

"  A  very  merry,  dancing,  drinking, 
Laughing,  (juaffing,  and  unthinking"  paper, — 

as  Dryden  has  it.     But  the  Christmas  holidays  are  past ;  and  »t 


'78  THE  COMPANION.  [chap  xi 

is  their  termination,  we  suppose,  that  has  made  us  serious.  Sit- 
ting up  at  night  also  is  a  great  inducer  of  your  moral  remark ; 
and  if  we  are  not  so  pleasant  as  we  intended  to  be,  it  is  be- 
cause some  friends  of  ours,  the  other  night,  were  the  pleasantea 
people  in  the  world  till  five  in  the  morning. 


ci£AP.  III.]  FINE  DAYS  IN  JANUARY  AND  FEBRUARY. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Fine  days  in  January  and  February. 

We  speak  of  those  days,  unexpected,  sunshiny,  cheerful,  even 
vernal,  which  come  towards  the  end  of  January,  and  are  too  apt 
to  come  alone.  They  are  often  set  in  the  midst  of  a  series  of  rainy 
ones,  like  a  patch  of  blue  in  the  sky.  Fine  weather  is  much  at 
any  time,  after  or  before  the  end  of  the  year ;  but,  in  the  latter 
case,  the  days  are  still  winter  days ;  whereas,  in  the  former,  the 
year  being  turned,  and  March  and  April  before  us,  we  seem  to 
feel  the  coming  of  spring.  In  the  streets  and  squares,  the  ladies 
are  abroad,  with  their  colors  and  glowing  cheeks.  If  you  can 
hear  anything  but  noise,  you  hear  the  sparrows.  People  antici- 
pate at  breakfast  the  pleasure  they  shall  have  in  "getting  out." 
The  solitary  poplar  in  a  corner  looks  green  against  the  sky  ;  and 
the  brick  wall  has  a  warmth  in  it.  Then  in  the  noisier  streets, 
what  a  multitude  and  a  new  life !  What  horseback  !  What 
promenading  !  What  shopping,  and  giving  good  day  !  Bonnets 
encounter  bonnets : — all  the  Miss  Williamses  meet  all  the  Miss 
Joneses  ;  and  everybody  wonders,  particularly  at  nothing.  The 
shop-windows,  putting  forward  their  best,  may  be  said  to  be  in 
blossom.  The  yellow  carriages  flash  in  the  sunshine ;  footmen 
rejoice  in  their  white  calves,  not  dabbed,  as  usual,  with  rain  ; 
the  gossips  look  out  of  their  three-pair-of-stairs  windows  ;  other 
windows  arc  thrown  opon  ;  fruiterers'  shops  look  well,  swelling 
with  full  baskets  ;  pavements  are  found  to  be  dry ;  lap-dogs 
frisk  under  their  asthmas;  and  old  gentlemen  issue  forth,  peer- 
ing up  at  the  region  of  the  north-east. 

Then  in  the  country,  how  emerald  the  green,  how  open-lookinn; 
the  prospect!  Honeysuckles  (a  name  alone  with  a  garden  in 
It)  are  detected  in  blossom:  the  hazel  follows;  the  snowdro]) 
hangs  its  white  perfection,  exquisite  with  green  ;  we  fancy  the 
trees  are  already  thicl<er  ;   voces  of  winter  birds  nre  taken  fo» 


180  THE  COMPANION.  [chap.  hi. 

new  ones  ;  and  in  February  new  ones  come — the  thrush,  the 
chaffinch,  and  the  wood-lark.  Then  rooks  begin  to  pair ;  and 
the  wagtail  dances  in  the  lane.  As  we  write  this  article,  the 
sun  is  on  our  paper,  and  chanticleer  (the  same,  we  trust,  that 
we  heard  the  other  day)  seems  to  crow  in  a  very  different  style, 
lord  of  the  ascendant,  and  as  willing  to  be  with  his  wives  abroad 
as  at  home.     We  think  we  see  him,  as  in  Chaucer's  homestead  : 

He  looketh,  as  it  were,  a  grim  leoun; 
And  on  his  toes  he  roameth  up  and  down ; 
Him  deigneth  not  to  set  his  foot  to  ground  ; 
He  clucketh  when  he  hath  a  corn  yfound. 
And  to  him  runnen  then  his  wives  all. 

Will  the  reader  have  the  rest  of  the  picture,  as  Chaucer  gave 
it  ?  It  is  as  bright  and  strong  as  the  day  itself,  and  as  suited 
to  it  as  a  falcon  to  a  knight's  fist.  Hear  how  the  old  poet  throws 
forth  his  strenuous  music  ;  as  fine,  considered  as  mere  music 
and  versification,  as  the  description  is  pleasant  and  noble. 

His  comb  was  redder  than  the  fine  corall, 
Embattled  as  it  were  a  castle  wall ; 
His  bill  was  black,  and  as  the  jet  it  shone  ; 
Like  azure  was  his  legges  and  his  tone  ; 
His  nailes  whiter  than  the  lily  flower. 
And  like  the  burned  gold  was  his  colour. 

Hardly  one  pause  like  the  other  throughout,  and  yet  all  flow- 
ing  and  sweet.  The  pause  on  the  third  syllable  in  the  last  line 
but  one,  and  that  on  the  sixth  in  the  last,  together  with  the  deep 
variety  of  vowels,  make  a  beautiful  concluding  couplet ;  and 
indeed  the  whole  is  a  study  for  versification.  So  little  were 
those  old  poets  unaware  of  their  task,  as  some  are  apt  to  suppose 
them  ;  and  so  little  have  others  dreamt,  that  they  surpassed 
them  in  their  own  pretensions.  The  accent,  it  is  to  be  observed, 
in  those  concluding  words,  as  coral  and  color,  is  to  be  thrown 
on  the  last  syllable,  as  it  is  in  Italian.  Color,  colore,  and  Chau- 
cer's old  Anglo-Gallican  word,  is  a  much  nobler  one  than  our 
modern  one  tolor.  We  liave  injured  many  such  words,  by 
throwing  back  the  accent. 


CHAP.  III.]  FINE  DAYS  IN  JANUARY  AND  FEBRUARY.  IS  I 

We  should  beg  pardon  for  this  digression,  if  it  had  not  been 
part  of  our  understood  agreement  with  the  reader  to  be  as  de- 
sultory as  we  please  and  as  befits  Companions.  Our  very  en- 
joyment of  the  day  we  are  describing  would  not  let  us  be  other- 
wise. It  is  also  an  old  fancy  of  ours  to  associate  the  ideas  of 
Chaucer  with  that  of  any  early  and  vigorous  manifestation  of 
light  and  pleasure.  He  is  not  only  the  "  morning-star  "  of  our 
poetry,  as  Denham  called  him,  but  the  morning  itself,  and  a 
good  bit  of  the  noon  ;  and  we  could  as  soon  help  quoting  him 
at  the  beginning  of  the  year,  as  we  could  help  wishing  to  hear 
the  cry  of  primroses,  and  thinking  of  the  sweet  faces  that  buy 
them. 


182  THE  COMPAJSTION.  [chap.  iv. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Walks  home  by  night  in  bad  weather.     Watchmen. 

The  readers  of  these  our  lucubrations  need  not  be  informed 
that  we  keep  no  carriage.  The  consequence  is,  that  being  vi- 
sitors of  the  theatre,  and  having  some  inconsiderate  friends  who 
grow  pleasanter  and  pleasanter  till  one  in  the  morning,  we  are 
great  walkers  home  by  night ;  and  this  has  made  us  great  ac- 
quaintances of  watchmen,  moon-light,  mMfZ-light,  and  other  ac- 
companiments of  that  interesting  hour.  Luckily  we  are  fond 
of  a  walk  by  night.  It  does  not  always  do  us  good ;  but  that 
is  not  the  fault  of  the  hour,  but  our  own,  who  ought  to  be 
stouter  ;  and  therefore  we  extract  what  good  we  can  out  of  our 
necessity,  with  becoming  temper.  It  is  a  remarkable  thing  ii. 
nature,  and  one  of  the  good-naturedest  things  we  know  of  her, 
that  the  mere  fact  of  looking  about  ns,  and  being  conscious  of 
what  is  going  on,  is  its  own  reward,  if  we  do  but  notice  it  in 
good-humor.  Nature  is  a  great  painter  (and  art  and  society 
are  among  her  works),  to  whose  minutest  touches  the  mere  fact 
of  becoming  alive  is  to  enrich  the  stock  of  our  enjoyments. 

We  confess  there  are  points  liable  to  cavil  in  a  walk  hoiue 
by  night  in  February.  Old  umbrellas  have  their  weak  sides  ; 
and  the  quantity  of  mud  and  rain  may  surmount  the  picturesque. 
Mistaking  a  soft  piece  of  mud  for  hard,  and  so  filling  your  shoe 
with  it,  especially  at  setting  out,  must  be  acknowledged  to  be 
"aggravating."  But  then  you  ought  to  have  boots.  There 
are  sights,  indeed,  in  the  streets  of  London,  which  can  be  ren- 
dered pleasant  by  no  philosophy  ;  things  too  grave  to  be  talked 
about  in  our  present  paper  ;  but  we  must  premise,  that  our  walk 
leads  us  out  of  town,  and  through  streets  and  suburbs  of  by  no 
means  the  worst  description.  Even  there  we  may  be  grieved 
if  we  will.     The  farther  the  walk   into  the  country,  the  more 


CHAP.  IV.]  WALKS  HOME  BY  NIGHT.  I  S3 

tiresome  we  may  choose  to  find  it ;  and  when  we  take  it  purely 
to  oblige  others,  we  must  allow,  as  in  the  case  of  a  friend  of 
ours,  that  generosity  itself  on  two  sick  legs  may  find  limits  to 
the  notion  of  virtue  being  its  own  reward,  and  reasonably  "  curse 
those  comfortable  people  "  who,  by  the  lights  in  their  windows, 
are  getting  into  their  warm  beds,  and  saying  to  one  another, 
"  Bad  thing  to  be  out  of  doors  to-night." 

Supposing,  then,  that  we  are  in  a  reasonable  state  of  health 
and  comfort  in  other  respects,  we  say  that  a  walk  home  at  night 
has  its  merits,  if  you  choose  to  meet  with  them.  The  worst 
part  of  it  is  the  setting  out ;  the  closing  of  the  door  upon  the 
kind  faces  that  part  with  you.  But  their  words  and  looks,  on 
the  other  hand,  may  set  you  well  off".  We  have  known  a  word 
last  us  all  the  way  home,  and  a  look  make  a  dream  of  it.  To 
a  lover  for  instance  no  walk  can  be  bad.  He  sees  but  one  face 
in  the  rain  and  darkness  ;  the  same  that  he  saw  by  the  liglit  in 
the  warm  room.  This  ever  accompanies  him,  looking  in  his 
eyes;  and  if  the  most  pitiable  and  spoilt  face  in  the  world  should 
come  between  them,  startling  him  with  the  saddest  mockery  of 
love,  he  would  treat  it  kindly  for  her  sake.  But  this  is  a  beg- 
ging of  the  question.  A  lover  does  not  walk.  He  is  sensible 
neither  to  the  pleasures  nor  pains  of  walking.  He  treads  on 
air ;  and  in  the  thick  of  all  that  seems  inclement,  has  an  avenue 
of  light  and  velvet  spread  for  him,  like  a  sovereign  prince. 

To  resume,  then,  like  men  of  this  world.  The  advantafre  of 
a  late  hour  is,  that  everything  is  silent  and  the  people  fast  in 
their  beds.  This  gives  the  whole  world  a  tranquil  appearance. 
Inanimate  objects  are  no  calmer  than  passions  and  cares  now 
seem  to  be,  all  laid  asleep.  The  human  being  is  motionless  as 
the  house  or  tree  ;  sorrow  is  suspended  ;  and  you  endeavor  to 
think  that  love  only  is  awake.  Let  not  readers  of  true  deli- 
cacy be  alarmed,  for  we  mean  to  touch  profanely  upon  nothing 
that  ought  to  be  sacred  ;  and  as  we  are  for  thinking  the  best  on 
these  occasions,  it  is  of  the  best  love  we  think  ;  love  of  no  heart- 
less order,  and  such  only  as  ought  to  bo  awake  with  the  stars. 

As  to  cares  and  curtain-lectures,  and  such-like  abuses  of  the 
tranquillity  of  night,  we  call  to  mind,  for  their  sakes,  all  the  say- 
ings  of   the   poets  and  others   about   "  balmy   sleep,"   and  the 


184  THE  COMPANION.  [chap,  xr 

soothing  of  hurt  minds,  and  the  weariness  of  sorrow,  which 
drops  into  forgetfulness.  The  great  majority  are  certainly 
"  fast  as  a  church  "  by  the  time  we  speak  of;  and  for  the  rest, 
we  are  among  the  workers  who  have  been  sleepless  for  their 
advantage  ;  so  we  take  out  our  license  to  forget  them  for  the 
time  being.  The  only  thing  that  shall  remind  us  of  them  is 
the  red  lamp,  shining  afar  over  the  apothecary's  door ;  which, 
while  it  does  so,  reminds  us  also  that  there  is  help  for  them  to 
be  had.  I  see  him  now,  the  pale  blinker  suppressing  the  con- 
scious injustice  of  his  anger  at  being  roused  by  the  apprentice, 
and  fumbling  himself  out  of  the  house,  in  hoarseness  and  great- 
coat, resolved  to  make  the  sweetness  of  the  Christmas  bill  in- 
demnify him  for  the  bitterness  of  the  moment. 

But  we  shall  be  getting  too  much  into  the  interior  of  the 
houses.  By  this  time  the  hackney-coaches  have  all  left  the 
stands — a  good  symptom  of  their  having  got  their  day's  money. 
Crickets  are  heard,  here  and  there,  amidst  the  embers  of  some 
kitchen.  A  dog  follows  us.  Will  nothing  make  him  "  go  along  ?" 
We  dodge  him  in  vain  ;  we  run  ;  we  stand  and  "  hish !"  at  him, 
accompanying  the  prohibition  with  dehortatory  gestures,  and  an 
imaginary  picking  up  of  a  stone.  We  turn  again,  and  there 
he  is  vexing  our  skirts.  He  even  forces  us  into  an  angry 
doubt  whether  he  will  not  starve,  if  we  do  not  let  him  go  home 
with  us.  Now  if  we  could  but  lame  him  without  being  cruel ; 
or  if  we  were  only  an  overseer,  or  a  beadle,  or  a  dealer  in  dog- 
skin ;  or  a  political  economist,  to  think  dogs  unnecessary.  Oh  ! 
come,  he  has  turned  a  corner,  he  is  gone  ;  we  think  we  see 
him  trotting  off  at  a  distance,  thin  and  muddy ;  and  our  heart 
misgives  us.  But  it  was  not  our  fault ;  we  were  not  "  hishing  " 
at  the  time.  His  departure  was  lucky,  for  he  had  got  our  en- 
joyments into  a  dilemma  ;  our  "  article  "  would  not  have  known 
what  to  do  with  him.  These  are  the  perplexities  to  which  your 
sympathizers  are  liable.  We  resume  our  way,  independent 
and  alone  ;  for  we  have  no  companion  this  time,  except  our 
never-to-be-forgotten  and  ethereal  companion,  the  reader.  A 
real  arm  within  another's  puts  us  out  of  the  pale  of  walking 
that  is  to  be  made  good.  It  is  good  already.  A  fellow-pedes- 
trian is  company  ;  is  the  party   you  have  left  ;  you  talk  and 


CHAP.  IV.]  WALKS  HOME  BY  NIGHT.  18.5 

laugh,  and  there  is  no  longer  anything  to  be  contended  with. 
But  alone,  and  in  bad  weather,  and  with  a  long  way  to  go,  here 
is  something  for  the  temper  and  spirits  to  grapple  with  and 
turn  to  account ;  and  accordingly  we  are  booted  and  buttoned 
up,  an  umbrella  over  our  heads,  the  rain  pelting  upon  it,  and 
the  lamp-light  shining  in  the  gutters ;  *'  mud-shine,"  as  an  artist 
of  our  acquaintance  used  to  call  it,  with  a  gusto  of  reprobation. 
Now,  walk  cannot  well  be  worse ;  and  yet  it  shall  be  nothing 
if  you  meet  it  heartily.  There  is  a  pleasure  in  overcoming 
obstacles ;  mere  action  is  something  ;  imagination  is  more ;  and 
the  spinning  of  the  blood,  and  vivacity  of  the  mental  endeavor, 
act  well  upon  one  another,  and  gradually  put  you  in  a  state  of 
robust  consciousness  and  triumph.  Every  time  you  set  down 
your  leg,  you  have  a  respect  for  it.  The  umbrella  is  held  in 
the  hand  like  a  roaring  trophy. 

We  are  now  reaching  the  country  :  the  fog  and  rain  are  over; 
and  we  meet  our  old  friends  the  watchmen,  staid,  heavy,  indif- 
ferent, more  coat  than  man,  pondering,  yet  not  pondering,  old 
but  not  reverend,  immensely  useless.  No  ;  useless  they  are 
not ;  for  the  inmates  of  the  houses  think  them  otherwise,  and 
in  that  imagination  they  do  good.  We  do  not  pity  the  watch- 
men as  we  used.  Old  age  often  cares  little  for  regular  sleep. 
They  could  not  be  sleeping  perhaps  if  they  were  in  their  beds ; 
and  certainly  they  would  not  be  earning.  What  sleep  they 
get  is  perhaps  sweeter  in  the  watch-box, — a  forbidden  sweet; 
and  they  have  a  sense  of  importance,  and  a  claim  on  the  per- 
sons in-doors,  which,  together  with  the  amplitude  of  their  coat- 
ing,  and  the  possession  of  the  box  itself,  make  them  feel  them- 
selves, not  without  reason,  to  be  "  somebody."  They  are  pecu- 
liar and  official.  Tomkins  is  a  cobbler  as  well  as  they ;  but 
then  he  is  no  watchman.  He  cannot  speak  to  "  things  of  night ;" 
nor  bid  "  any  man  stand  in  the  king's  name."  He  does  not 
get  fees  and  gratitude  from  the  old,  the  infirm,  and  the  drunken  ; 
nor  "let  gentlemen  go;"  nor  is  he  "a  parish-man."  The 
churchwardens  don't  speak  to  him.  If  he  put  himself  ever  so 
much  in  the  way  of  "  the  great  plumber,"  he  would  not  say, 
"  How  do  you  find  yourself,  Tomkins  ?" — "  An  ancient  and 
quiet  watchman."     Such  he  was  in  the  time  of  Shakspeare,  and 


180  THE  COMPANION.  [chap,  tt 

such  he  is  now.  Ancient,  because  he  cannot  help  it ;  and  quiet, 
because  he  will  not  help  it,  if  possible ;  his  object  being  to 
procure  quiet  on  all  sides,  his  own  included.  For  this  reason 
he  does  not  make  too  much  noise  in  crying  the  hour,  nor  is  of- 
fensively particular  in  his  articulation.  No  man  shall  sleep 
the  worse  for  him,  out  of  a  horrid  sense  of  the  word  "  three." 
The  sound  shall  be  three,  four,  or  one,  as  suits  their  mutual 
convenience. 

Yet  characters  are  to  be  found  even  among  watchmen.  They 
are  not  all  mere  coat,  and  lump,  and  indifference.  By  the  way, 
what  do  they  think  of  in  general  ?  How  do  they  vary  the  mo- 
notony of  their  ruminations  from  one  to  two,  and  from  two  to 
three,  and  so  on  ?  Are  they  comparing  themselves  with  the  un- 
official cobbler  ;  thinking  of  what  they  shall  have  for  dinner  to- 
morrow ;  or  what  they  were  about  six  years  ago ;  or  that  their 
lot  is  the  hardest  in  the  world,  as  insipid  old  people  are  apt  to 
think,  for  the  pleasure  of  grumbling  ;  or  that  it  has  some  advan- 
tages nevertheless,  besides  fees ;  and  that  if  they  are  not  in  bed, 
their  wife  is  ? 

Of  characters,  or  rather  varieties  among  watchmen,  we  re- 
member several.  One  was  a  Dandy  Watchman,  who  used  to 
ply  at  the  top  of  Oxford -street,  next  the  park.  We  called  him 
the  dandy,  on  account  of  his  utterance.  He  had  a  mincing  way 
with  it,  pronouncing  the  a  in  the  word  "  past"  as  it  is  in  hat, 
making  a  little  preparatory  hem  before  he  spoke,  and  then  bring- 
ing out  his  "  past  ten  "  in  a  style  of  genteel  indifference ;  as  if, 
upon  the  whole,  he  was  of  that  opinion. 

Another  was  the  Metallic  Watchman,  who  paced  the  same 
street  towards  Hanover-square,  and  had  a  clang  in  his  voice  like 
a  trumpet.  He  was  a  voice  and  nothing  else  ;  but  any  differ- 
ence is  something  in  a  watchman. 

A  third  who  cried  the  hour  in  Bedford-square,  was  remarka- 
ble in  his  calling  for  being  abrupt  and  loud.  There  was  a  fash- 
ion among  his  tribe  just  come  up  at  that  time,  of  omitting  the 
words  "  past  "  and  "  o'clock,"  and  crying  only  the  number  of  the 
hour.  I  know  not  whether  a  recollection  I  have  of  his  perform, 
ance  one  night  is  entire  matter  of  fact,  or  whether  any  subse- 


CHAP.  IV.]  WALKS  HOME  BY  NIGHT.  1S7 

quent  fancies  of  what  might  have  taken  place  are  mixed  up  with 
it ;  but  my  impression  is,  that  as  I  was  turning  the  corner  into 
the  square  with  a  friend,  and  was  in  the  midst  of  a  discussion  in 
which  numbers  were  concerned,  we  were  suddenly  startled,  as  if 
in  solution  of  it,  by  a  brief  and  tremendous  outcry  of — One. 
This  paragraph  ought  to  have  been  at  the  bottom  of  the  page,  and 
the  word  printed  abruptly  round  the  corner. 

A  fourth  watchman  was  a  very  singular  phenomenon,  a  Read- 
ing  Watchman.  He  had  a  book,  which  he  read  by  the  light  of 
his  lantern  ;  and  instead  of  a  pleasant,  gave  you  a  very  uncom- 
fortable idea  of  him.  It  seemed  cruel  to  pitch  amidst  so  many 
discomforts  and  privations  one  who  had  imagination  enough  to 
wish  to  be  relieved  from  them.  Nothing  but  a  sluggish  vacuity 
befits  a  watchman. 

But  the  oddest  of  all  was  the  Sliding  Watchman.  Think  of 
walking  up  a  street  in  the  depth  of  a  frosty  winter,  with  long  ice 
in  the  gutters,  and  sleet  over  head,  and  then  figure  to  yourself  a 
sort  of  bale  of  a  man  in  white  coming  sliding  towards  you  with 
a  lantern  in  one  hand,  and  an  umbrella  over  his  head.  It  was 
the  oddest  mixture  of  luxury  and  hardship,  of  juvenility  and  old 
age !  But  this  looked  agreeable.  Animal  spirits  carry  every- 
thing before  them ;  and  our  invincible  friend  seemed  a  watch- 
man lor  Rabelais.  Time  was  run  at  and  butted  by  him  like  a 
goat.  The  slide  seemed  to  bear  him  half  through  the  night  at 
once  ;  he  slipped  from  out  of  his  box  and  his  common-places  at 
one  rush  of  a  merry  thought,  and  seemed  to  say,  "  Everything's 
in  imagination  ; — here  goes  the  whole  weight  of  my  office." 

But  we  approach  our  home.  How  still  the  trees  !  How  deli- 
ciously  asleep  the  country!  How  beautifully  grim  and  noctur- 
nal this  wooded  avenue  of  ascent,  against  the  cold  white  sky  ! 
The  watchmen  and  patroles,  which  the  careful  citizens  have 
planted  in  abundance  within  a  mile  of  their  doors,  salute  us  with 
their  *'  good  mornings  ;" — not  so  welcome  as  we  pretend  ;  for  we 
ought  not  to  be  out  so  late  ;  and  it  is  one  of  the  assumptions  of 
these  fatfierly  old  fellows  to  remind  us  of  it.  Some  fowls,  who 
have  made  a  strange  roost  in  a  tree,  flutter  as  we  pass  them  ; — 

37 


i  58  THE  COMPANION.  [chap.  iv. 

another  pull  up  the  hill,  unyielding ;  a  few  strides  on  a  level ; 
and  there  is  the  light  in  the  window,  the  eye  of  tlie  warm  soul  of 
the  house, — one's  home.  How  particular,  and  yet  how  univer- 
sal, is  that  word ;  and  how  surely  does  it  deposit  every  one  for 
himself  in  his  own  nest ! 


CHAP   v.]  EXISTING  FASHIONS.  i8? 


CHAPTER  V. 

Secret  of  some  existing  Fashions. 

Fashions  have  a  short  life  or  a  long  one,  according  as  it  suits 
the  makers  to  startle  us  with  a  variety,  or  save  themselves  obser- 
vation of  a  defect.  Hence  fashions  set  by  young  or  handsome  peo- 
ple are  fugitive,  and  such  are,  for  the  most  part,  those  that  bring 
custom  to  the  milliner.  If  we  keep  watch  on  an  older  one,  we  shall 
generally  trace  it,  unless  of  general  convenience,  to  some  pertina- 
city on  the  part  of  the  aged.  Even  fashions,  otherwise  convenient, 
as  the  trousers  that  have  so  long  taken  place  of  small  clothes, 
often  perhaps  owe  their  continuance  to  some  general  defect  which 
they  help  to  screen.  The  old  are  glad  to  retain  them,  and  so  be 
confounded  with  the  young  ;  and  among  the  latter,  there  are  more 
limbs  perhaps  to  which  loose  clothing  is  acceptable,  than  tight. 
More  legs  and  knees,  we  suspect,  rejoice  in  those  cloaks,  than 
would  be  proud  to  acknowledge  themselves  in  a  shoe  and  stock- 
ing. The  pertinacity  of  certain  male  fashions  during  the  last 
twenty  years,  we  think  we  can  trace  to  a  particular  source.  If 
it  be  objected,  that  the  French  partook  of  them,  and  that  our 
modes  have  generally  come  from  that  country,  we  suspect  that 
the  old  court  in  France  had  more  to  do  with  them,  than  Napo- 
leon's, which  was  confessedly  masculine  and  military.  The  old 
French  in  this  country,  and  the  old  noblesse  in  the  other,  wore 
bibs  and  trousers,  when  the  Emperor  went  in  a  plain  stock  and 
delighted  to  show  his  good  leg.  For  this  period,  if  for  this  only, 
we  are  of  opinion,  that  whether  the  male  fashions  did  or  did  not 
originate  in  France,  other  circumstances  have  conspired  to  retain 
them  in  both  countries,  for  which  the  revolutionary  government 
cannot  account.  Mr.  Hazlitt  informs  us  in  his  Life  of  Napoleon, 
that  during  the  consulate,  all  the  courtiers  were  watching  the 
head  of  the  state  to  know  whether  mankind  were  to  wear  their 


!9C  THE  COMPANION.  ^chap  t 

own  hair  or  powder ;  and  that  Bonaparte  luckily  settled  the  mat- 
ter, by  deciding  in  favor  of  nature  and  cleanliness.  But  here 
the  revolutionary  authority  stopped  ;  nor  in  this  instance  did  it 
begin :  for  it  is  understood,  that  it  was  the  plain  head  of  Dr. 
Franklin,  when  he  was  ambassador  at  Paris,  that  first  amused, 
and  afterwards  interested,  the  giddy  polls  of  his  new  acquaint- 
ances; who  went  and  did  likewise.  Luckily,  this  was  a  fashion 
that  suited  all  ages,  and  on  that  account  it  has  survived.  But 
the  bibs,  and  the  trousers,  and  the  huge  neckcloths,  whence  come 
they  ?  How  is  it,  at  least,  that  they  have  been  so  long  retained  ? 
Observe  that  polished  old  gentleman,  who  bows  so  well,*  and  is 
conversing  with  the  most  agreeable  of  physicians. f  He  made  a 
great  impression  in  his  youth,  and  was  naturally  loath  to  give  it 
up.  On  a  sudden  he  finds  his  throat  not  so  juvenile  as  he  could 
wish  it.  Up  goes  his  stock,  and  enlarges.  He  rests  both  his 
cheeks  upon  it,  the  chin  settling  comfortably  upon  a  bend  in  the 
middle,  as  becomes  its  delicacy.  By  and  bye,  he  thinks  the 
cheeks  themselves  do  not  present  as  good  an  aspect  as  with  so 
young  a  heart  might  in  reason  be  expected  ;  and  forth  issue  the 
points  of  his  shirt-collar,  and  give  them  an  investment  at  once 
cherishing  and  spirited.  Thirdly,  he  suspects  his  waist  to  have 
played  him  a  trick  of  good  living,  and  surpassed  the  bounds  of 
youth  and  elegance  before  he  was  well  aware  of  it.  Therefore, 
to  keep  it  seemingly,  if  not  actually  within  limits,  forth  he  sends 
a  frill  in  the  first  instance,  and  a  padded  set  of  lapels  afterwards. 
He  happens  to  look  on  the  hand  that  does  all  this,  and  discerns 
with  a  sigh  that  it  is  not  quite  the  same  hand  to  look  at,  which 
the  women  have  been  transported  to  kiss  ;  though  for  that  matter 
they  will  kiss  it  still,  and  be  transported  too.  The  wrist-band 
looks  forth,  and  says,  "  Shall  I  help  to  cover  it  ?  "  and  it  is  al- 
lowed to  do  so,  being  a  gentlemanly  finish,  and  impossible  to  the 
mechanical.  But  finally  the  legs  :  they  were  amongst  the  hand- 
somest in  the  world  ;  and  how  did  they  not  dance !  What  con- 
quests did  they  not  achieve  in  the  time  of  hoop-petticoats  and 
toupees  !  And  long  afterwards,  were  not  Apollo  and  Hercules 
found  in  them  together,  to  the  delight  of  the  dowagers !    And 

*  The  late  King.  f  Sir  William  K 


rH>p  TV.]  EXISTING  FASHIONS.  ]oi 

shall  the  gods  be  treated  with  disrespect,  when  the  heaviness  ol 
change  comes  upon  them  ?  No.  Round  comes  the  kindly  trou- 
serian  veil  (as  Dyer  of  "  The  Fleece  "  would  have  had  it)  ;  the 
legs  retreat,  like  other  conquerors,  into  retirement ;  and  only  the 
lustre  of  their  glory  remains,  such  as  Bonaparte  might  have  en- 
vied. 


ZV 


92  THE  COMPANION.  [chav.  t 


CHAPTER  VI. 


Rain  out  of  a  ri/>ar  S'kj 


In  a  work,  De    Varia  Historia,  written  after  the   manner  oJ 
^lian,  by  Leonico  Tomeo,  an  elegant  scholar  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  we  meet  with  the  following  pretty  story : — When  Pha- 
lantus    led  his  colony  out  of  Sparta  into  the  south  of  Italy,  he 
consulted  the  oracle  of  Apollo,  and  was  informed  that  he  should 
know  the  region  he   was  to  inhabit,  by  the   fall  of  a  plentiful 
shower  out  of  a  clear  sky.     Full  of  doubt  and  anxiety  at  this 
answer,  and  unable  to  meet  with  any  one  who  could  interpret  it 
for  him,  he  took  his  departure,  arrived  in  Italy,  but  could  succeed 
in  occupying  no  region, — in  capturing  no  city.    This  made  him 
fall  to  considering  the  oracle  more  particularly  ;  upon  which  he 
came  to  the  conclusion,  that  he  had  undertaken  a  foolish  project, 
and  that  the  gods  meant  to  tell  him  so  ;   for  that  a  sky  should  be 
clear,  and  yet  the  rain  out  of  it  plentiful,  now  seemed  to  him  a 
manifest  impossibility. 

Tired  out  with  the  anxious  thoughts  arising  from  this  conclu- 
sion, he  laid  his  head  on  the  lap  of  his  wife,  who  had  come  with 
him,  and  took  such  a  draught  of  sleep  as  the  fatigue  of  sorrow 
is  indulged  with,  like  other  toil.  His  wife  loved  him  ;  and  as  he 
lay  thus  tenderly  in  her  lap,  she  kept  looking  upon  his  face  ;  till 
thinking  of  the  disappointments  he  had  met  with,  and  the  perils 
he  had  still  to  undergo,  she  began  to  weep  bitterly,  so  that  the 
tears  fell  plentifully  upon  him,  and  awoke  him.  He  looked  up, 
and  seeing  those  showers  out  of  her  eyes,  hailed  at  last  the  ora- 
cle with  joy,  for  his  wife's  name  was  ^Ethra,  which  signifies  "  a 
clear  sky ;  "  and  thus  he  knew  that  he  had  arrived  at  the  region 
where  he  was  to  settle.  The  next  night  he  took  Tarentum, 
which  was  the  greatest  city  in  those  parts ;  and  he  and  his  pos- 
terity reigned  in  that  quarter  of  Italy,  as  you  may  see  in  Virgil. 


CftAP  VII. i     THE  MOUNTAIN  OF  THE  TWO  LOVERS  J 93 


CHAPTER  VII. 

The  Mountain  of  the  Two  Lovers 

We  forget  in  what  book  it  was,  many  years  ago,  that  we  read 
the  story  of  a  lover  who  was  to  win  his  mistress  by  carrying  her 
to  the  top  of  a  mountain,  and  how  he  did  win  her,  and  how  they 
ended  their  days  on  the  same  spot. 

We  think  the  scene  was  in  Switzerland  ;  but  the  mountain, 
though  high  enough  to  tax  his  stout  heart  to  the  uttermost,  must 
have  been  among  the  lowest.  Let  us  fancy  it  a  good  lofty  hill 
in  the  summer-time.  It  was,  at  any  rate,  so  high,  that  the  father 
of  the  lady,  a  proud  noble,  thought  it  impossible  for  a  young 
man  so  burdened  to  scale  it.  For  this  reason  alone,  in  scorn,  he 
bade  him  do  it,  and  his  daughter  should  be  his. 

The  peasantry  assembled  in  the  valley  to  witness  so  extraor- 
dinary a  sight.  They  measured  the  mountain  with  their  eyes  ; 
they  communed  with  one  another,  and  shook  their  heads ;  but 
all  admired  the  young  man  ;  and  some  of  his  fellows,  looking 
at  their  mistresses,  thought  they  could  do  as  much.  The  father 
was  on  horseback,  apart  and  sullen,  repenting  that  he  had  sub- 
jected his  daughter  even  to  the  show  of  such  a  hazard  ;  but  he 
thought  it  would  teach  his  inferiors  a  lesson.  The  young  man 
(the  son  of  a  small  land-proprietor,  who  had  some  pretensions 
to  wealth,  though  none  to  nobility)  stood,  respectful-looking,  but 
confident,  rejoicing  in  his  heart  that  he  should  win  his  mistress, 
though  at  the  cost  of  a  noble  pain,  which  he  could  hardly  think 
of  as  a  pain,  considering  who  it  was  that  he  was  to  carry.  If  he 
died  for  it,  he  should  at  least  have  had  her  in  his  arms,  and  have 
looked  her  in  the  face.  To  clasp  her  person  in  that  manner  was 
a  pleasure  which  he  contemplated  with  such  transport  as  is 
known  only  to  real  lovers  ;  for  none  others  know  how  respect 
heightens  the  joy  of  dispposing  with  formality,  nnd  hn-,v  ilio  flis. 


W4  THE  COMPANION.  icn>.rr-t 

pensing  with  the  formality  ennobles  and  makes  grateful  the  re- 
spect. 

The  lady  stood  by  the  side  of  her  father,  pale,  desirous,  and 
dreading.  She  thought  her  lover  would  succeed,  but  only  be- 
cause  she  thought  him  in  every  respect  the  noblest  of  his  sex, 
and  that  nothing  was  too  much  for  his  strength  and  valor. 
Great  fears  came  over  her  nevertheless.  She  knew  not  what 
might  happen,  in  the  chances  common  to  all.  She  felt  the  bit- 
terness of  being  herself  the  burden  to  him  and  the  task  ;  and 
dared  neither  to  look  at  her  father  nor  the  mountain.  S^ie  fixed 
her  eyes,  now  on  the  crowd  (which  nevertheless  she  beheld  not), 
and  now  on  her  hand  and  her  fingers'  ends,  which  she  doubled 
up  towards  her  with  a  pretty  pretence, — the  only  deception  she 
had  ever  used.  Once  or  twice  a  daughter  or  a  mother  slipped 
out  of  the  crowd,  and  coming  up  to  her,  notwithstanding  their 
fears  of  the  lord  baron,  kissed  that  hand  which  she  knew  not 
what  to  do  with. 

The  father  said,  "  Now,  sir,  to  put  an  end  to  this  mummery ;" 
and  the  lover,  turning  pale  for  the  first  time,  took  up  the  lady. 

The  spectators  rejoice  to  see  the  manner  in  which  he  moves 
off,  slow  but  secure,  and  as  if  encouraging  his  mistress.  They 
mount  the  hill  ;  they  proceed  well  ;  he  halts  an  instant  before 
he  gets  midway,  and  seems  refusing  something  ;  then  ascends 
at  a  quicker  rate  ;  and  now  being  at  the  midway  point,  shifts 
the  lady  from  one  side  to  the  other.  The  spectators  give  a 
great  shout.  The  baron,  with  an  air  of  indifference,  bites  the 
tip  of  his  gauntlet,  and  then  casts  on  them  an  eye  of  rebuke. 
At  the  shout  the  lover  resumes  his  way.  Slow  but  not  feeble  is 
his  step,  yet  it  gets  slower.  He  stops  again,  and  they  think  they 
see  the  lady  kiss  him  on  the  forehead.  The  women  begin  to 
tremble,  but  the  men  say  he  will  be  victorious.  He  resumes 
again  ;  he  is  half-way  between  the  middle  and  the  top  ;  he 
rushes,  he  stops,  he  staggers  ;  but  he  does  not  fall.  Anothei 
shout  from  the  men,  and  he  resumes  once  more  ;  two-thirds  of 
the  remaining  part  of  the  way  are  conquered.  They  are  cer- 
tain the  lady  kisses  him  on  the  forehead  and  on  the  eyes.  The 
women  burst  into  tears,  and  the  stoutest  men  look  pale.  He 
ascends  slowlier  than  ever,  but  seeming  to  be  more  sure.     He 


CHAP.  VII.''  THE  MOUNTAIN  OF  THF  TWO  LOVERS.  19? 

halts,  but  it  is  only  to  plant  his  foot  to  go  on  again ;  and  tlius  he 
picks  his  way,  planting  his  foot  at  every  step,  and  then  gaining 
ground  with  an  effort.  The  lady  lifts  up  her  arms,  as  if  to 
lighten  him.  See  !  he  is  almost  at  the  top  ;  he  stops,  he  strug- 
gles, he  moves  sideways,  taking  very  little  steps,  and  bringing 
one  foot  every  time  close  to  the  other.  Now — he  is  all  but  on  the 
top  ;  he  halts  again  ;  he  is  fixed  ;  he  staggers.  A  groan  goes 
through  the  multitude.  Suddenly,  he  turns  full  front  towards 
the  top  ;  it  is  luckily  almost  a  level  ;  he  staggers,  but  it  is  for- 
ward : — Yes  : — every  limb  in  the  multitude  makes  a  movement 
as  if  it  would  assist  him : — see  at  last !  he  is  on  the  top  ;  and 
down  he  falls  flat  with  his  burden.  An  enormous  shout !  lie 
has  won  :  he  has  won.  Now  he  has  a  right  to  caress  his  mis- 
tress, and  she  is  caressing  him,  for  neither  of  them  gets  up.  If 
he  has  fainted,  it  is  with  joy,  and  it  is  in  her  arms. 

The  baron  put  spurs  to  his  horse,  the  crowd  following  him. 
Half-way  he  is  obliged  to  dismount;  they  ascend  the  rest  of  the 
liill  together,  the  crowd  silent  and  happy,  the  baron  ready  U 
burst  with  shame  and  impatience.  They  reach  the  top.  The 
lovers  are  face  to  face  on  the  ground,  the  lady  clasping  him  with 
both  arms,  his  lying  on  each  side. 

"  Traitor  !"  exclaimed  the  baron,  "  thou  hast  practised  this 
feat  before,  on  purpose  to  deceive  me.  Arise  !"  "  You  cannot 
expect  it,  sir,"  said  a  worthy  man,  who  was  rich  enough  to  speak 
his  mind  :  "  Samson  himself  might  take  his  rest  after  such  a 
deed  !" 

"  Part  them  !"  said  the  baron. 

Several  persons  went  up,  not  to  part  them,  but  to  congratulate 
and  keep  them  together.  These  people  look  close  ;  they  kneel 
down  ;  they  bend  an  ear  ;  they  bury  their  faces  upon  them. 
"  God  forbid  they  should  ever  be  parted  more,"  said  a  vcnera 
ble  man  ;  '•  they  never  can  be."  He  turned  his  old  face  stream 
ing  with  tears,  and  looked  up  at  the  baron  : — "  Sir,  they  a.rf 
dead!" 


133  THE  COMPANION.  [chap,  viii 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  True  Story  of  Vertumnus  and  Pomona. 

Weak  and  uninitiated  are  they  who  talk  of  things  modern  as 
opposed  to  the  idea  of  antiquity ;  who  fancy  that  the  Assyrian 
monarchy  must  have  preceded  tea-drinking  ;  and  that  no  Sims 
or  Gregson  walked  in  a  round  hat  and  trousers  before  the  times 
of  Inachus.  Plato  has  informed  us  (and  therefore  everybody 
ought  to  know)  that,  at  stated  periods  of  time,  everything  which 
has  taken  place  on  earth  is  acted  over  again.  There  have 
been  a  thousand  or  a  million  reigns,  for  instance,  of  Charles  the 
Second,  and  there  will  be  an  infinite  number  more  :  the  tooth- 
ache we  had  in  the  year  1811,  is  making  ready  for  us  some 
thousands  of  years  hence  ;  again  shall  people  be  wise  and  in 
love  as  surely  as  the  May-blossoms  re-appear  ;  and  again  will 
Alexander  make  a  fool  of  himself  at  Babylon,  and  Bonaparte  in 
Russia. 

Among  the  heaps  of  modern  stories,  wliich  are  accounted 
ancient,  and  which  have  been  deprived  of  their  true  appearance, 
bv  the  alteration  of  coloring  and  costume,  there  is  none  more 
decidedly  belonging  to  modern  times  than  that  of  Vertumnus 
and  Pomona.  Vertumnus  was,  and  will  be,  a  young  fellow,  re- 
markable for  his  accomplishments,  in  the  several  successive 
reigns  of  Charles  the  Second  ;  and,  I  find,  practised  his  story 
over  in  the  autumn  of  the  year  1680.  He  was  the  younger 
brother  of  a  respectable  family  in  Herefordshire  ;  and  from  his 
genius  at  turning  himself  to  a  variety  of  shapes,  came  to  be 
called,  in  after-ages,  by  his  classical  name.  In  like  manner, 
Pomona,  the  heroine  of  the  story,  being  the  goddess  of  those 
parts,  and  singularly  fond  of  their  scenery  and  productions,  tlie 
Latin  poets,  in  after-ages,  transformed  her  adventures  according 
to  their  fashion,  making  her  a  goddess  of  mythology,  and  giving 


CHAP.  viii.    STORY  OF  VERTUMNUS  AND  POMONA.  197 

her  a  name  after  her  beloved  fruits.  Her  real  name  was  Miss 
Appleton.  I  shall  therefore  waive  that  matter  once  for  all  ;  and 
retaining  only  the  appellation  which  poetry  has  rendered  so 
pleasant,  proceed  with  the  true  story. 

Pomona  wasa  beauty  like  her  name,  all  fruit  and  bloom.  She 
was  a  ruddy  brunette,  luxuriant  without  grossness  ;  and  had  a 
spring  in  her  step,  like  apples  dancing  on  a  bough.  (I'd  put  all 
this  into  verse,  to  which  it  has  a  natural  tendency  ;  but  I  haven't 
time.)  It  was  no  poetical  figure  to  say  of  her,  that  her  lips  were 
cherries,  and  her  cheeks  a  peach.  Her  locks,  in  clusters  about 
her  face,  trembled  heavily  as  she  walked.  The  color  called 
Pomona-green  was  named  after  her  favorite  dress.  Sometimes 
in  her  clothes  she  imitated  one  kind  of  fruit  and  sometimes  ano- 
ther,  philosophising  in  a  pretty  poetical  manner  on  the  common 
nature  of  things,  and  saying  there  was  more  in  the  similes  of 
her  lovers  than  they  suspected.  Her  dress  now  resembled  a 
burst  of  white  blossoms,  and  now  of  red  ;  but  her  favorite  one 
was  green,  both  coat  and  boddice,  from  which  her  beautiful  face 
looked  forth  like  a  bud.  To  see  her  tending  her  trees  in  her  or- 
chard (for  she  would  work  herself,  and  sing  all  the  while  like  a 
milk-maid) — to  see  her  I  say  tending  the  fruit-trees,  never  caring 
for  letting  her  boddice  slip  a  little  off  her  shoulders,  and  turning 
away  now  and  then  to  look  up  at  a  bird,  when  her  lips  would 
glance  in  the  sunshine  like  cherries  bedewed, — such  a  sight,  you 
may  imagine,  was  not  to  be  had  everywhere.  The  young  clowns 
would  get  up  in  the  trees  for  a  glimpse  of  her,  over  the  garden- 
wall  ;  and  swear  she  was  like  an  angel  in  Paradise. 

Everybody  was  in  love  with  her.  The  squire  was  in  love 
with  her  ;  the  attorney  was  in  love  ;  the  parson  was  particularly 
in  love.  The  peasantry  in  their  smock-frocks,  old  and  young, 
were  all  in  love.  You  never  saw  such  a  loving  place  in  your 
life  ;  yet  somehow  or  other  the  women  were  not  jealous,  nor 
fared  the  worse.  The  people  only  seemed  to  have  grown  the 
kinder.  Their  hearts  overflowed  to  all  about  them.  Such 
toasts  at  the  great  house  !  The  squire's  name  was  Payne, 
wliich  afterwards  came  to  be  called  Pan.  Pan,  Payne  (Paynim), 
Pagan,  a  villager.  The  race  was  so  numerous,  that  country, 
gentlemen  obtained  the  name  of  Paynim  in  general,  as  distin- 


198  THE  INDICATOR.  [  [chap.  vin. 

guished  from  the  nooility  ;  a  circumstance  which  has  not  es- 
caped the  learning  of  Milton : 

"  Both  Paynim  and  the  Peers." 

Silenus  was  Cy  oi  '^ymon  Lenox,  the  host  of  the  Tun,  a  fat 
merry  old  fellow,  renowned  in  the  song  as  Old  Sir  Cymon  the 
King.  He  was  in  love  too.  All  the  Satyrs,  or  rude  wits  of  the 
neighborhood,  and  all  the  Hauns,  or  softer-spoken  fellows, — none 
of  them  escaped.  There  was  also  a  Quaker  gentleman,  I  for- 
get his  name,  who  made  himself  conspicuous.  Pomona  confess- 
ed to  herself  that  he  had  merit ;  but  it  was  so  unaccompanied 
with  anything  of  the  ornamental  or  intellectual,  that  she  could 
not  put  up  with  him.  Indeed,  though  she  was  of  a  loving  na- 
ture, and  had  every  other  reason  to  wish  herself  settled  (for  she 
was  an  heiress  and  an  orphan),  she  could  not  find  it  in  her  heart 
to  respond  to  any  of  the  rude  multitude  around  her  ;  which  at 
last  occasioned  such  impatience  in  them,  and  uneasiness  to  her- 
self,  that  she  was  fain  to  keep  close  at  home,  and  avoid  the  lanes 
and  country  assemblies,  for  fear  of  being  carried  off.  It  was 
then  that  the  clowns  used  to  mount  the  trees  outside  her  garden- 
wall  to  get  a  sight  of  her. 

Pomona  wrote  to  a  cousin  she  had  in  town,  of  the  name  of 
Cerintha. — "  Oh,  my  dear  Cerintha,  what  am  I  to  do  ?  I  could 
laugh  while  I  say  it,  though  the  tears  positively  come  into  my 
eyes  ;  but  it  is  a  sad  thing  to  be  an  heiress  with  ten  thousand  a 
year,  and  one's  guardian  just  dead.  Nobody  will  let  me  alone. 
And  the  worst  of  it  is,  that  while  the  rich  animals  that  pester 
me,  disgust  one  with  talking  about  their  rent-rolls,  the  younger 
brothers  force  me  to  be  suspicious  of  their  views  upon  mine.  I 
could  throw  all  my  money  into  the  Wye  for  vexation.  God 
knows  I  do  not  care  two-pence  for  it.  Oh  Cerintha  !  I  wish  you 
were  unmarried,  and  could  change  yourself  into  a  man,  and  come 
and  deliver  me  ;  for  you  are  disinterested  and  sincere,  and  that 
is  all  I  require.  At  all  events,  I  will  run  for  it,  and  be  with  you 
before  winter :  for  here  I  cannot  stay.  Your  friend  the  Quaker 
has  just  rode   by.      He  says,  '  verily,'  that  I  am  cold  !     I  say 


CHAP.  VIII.]    STORY  OF  VERTUMNUS  AND  TUyj.i  c  n 

verily  he  is  no  wiser  than  his  horse  ;  and  that  I  coul  J  j/i'/  aim 
after  my  money." 

Cerintha  sympathized  heartily  with  her  cousin,  but  sh^  was 
perplexed  to  know  what  to  do.  There  were  plenty  of  wits  and 
young  fellows  of  her  acquaintance,  both  rich  and  poor ;  but 
only  one  whom  she  thought  fit  for  her  charming  cousin,  and  he 
was  a  younger  brother  as  poor  as  a  rat.  Besides,  he  was  not 
only  liable  to  suspicion  on  that  account,  but  full  of  delicacies  of 
his  own,  and  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  hazard  a  generous 
woman's  dislike.  This  was  no  other  than  our  friend  Vertumnus. 
His  real  name  was  Vernon.  He  lived  about  five  miles  from 
Pomona,  and  was  the  only  young  fellow  of  any  vivacity  who  had 
not  been  curious  enough  to  get  a  sight  of  her.  He  had  got  a 
notion  that  she  was  proud.  "  She  may  be  handsome,"  thought 
he  ;  "  but  a  handsome  proud  face  is  but  a  handsome  ugly  one 
to  my  thinking,  and  I'll  not  venture  my  poverty  to  her  ill-huinor." 
Cerintha  had  half-made  up  her  mind  to  undeceive  him  through 
the  medium  of  his  sister,  who  was  an  acquaintance  of  hers ;  but  an 
accident  did  it  for  her.  Vertumnus  was  rifling  one  day  with  some 
friends,  who  had  been  rejected,  when  passing  by  Pomona's  orchard, 
he  saw  one  of  her  clownish  admirers  up  in  the  trees,  peeping  at  her 
over  the  wall.  The  gaping,  unsophisticated  admiration  of  the  lad 
made  them  stop.  "  They  are  at  it  still,"  said  one  of  our  hero's 
companions,  "  they  are  at  it  still.  Why,  you  booby,  did  you 
never  see  a  proud  woman  before,  that  you  stand  gaping  there,  as 
if  your  soul  had  gone  out  of  ye?"  "Proud,"  said  the  lad,  look- 
ing down: — "a  wouldn't  say  nay  to  a  fly,  if  gentlefolks  wouldn't 
tease  'un  so."  "Come,"  said  our  hero,  "  I'll  take  this  opportu- 
nity to  see  for  myself"  He  was  up  in  the  tree  in  an  instant,  and 
almost  as  speedily  exclaimed,  "  What  a  face  !" 

"He  has  it!"  cried  the  others,  laughing: — "fairly  struck 
through  the  ribs.  Look,  if  looby  and  he  arn't  sworn  friends  on 
the  thought  of  it." 

It  looked  very  like  it,  certainly.  Our  hero  had  scarcely  gazed 
at  her,  when,  without  turning  away  his  eyes,  he  clap{)cd  liis  liand 
upon  that  of  the  peasant,  with  a  hearty  shake,  and  said,  "You're 
right,  my  friend.  If  there  is  pride  in  that  face,  truth  itself  is  a 
lie.     What  a  face!     Wliat  eyes  !     What  a  figure  !" 


aOO  THE  COMPANION  [chap.  vnr. 

Pomona  was  observing  her  old  gardener  fill  a  basket.  From 
time  to  time  he  looked  up  at  her,  smiling  and  talking.  She  was 
eating  a  plum  ;  and  as  she  said  something  that  made  them 
laugh,  her  rosy  mouth  sparkled  with  all  its  pearls  in  the  sun, 

"  Pride  !"  thought  Vertumnus  : — "  there's  no  more  pride  in  that 
charming  mouth,  than  there  is  folly  enough  to  relish  my  fine 
companions  here." 

Our  hero  returned  home  more  thoughtful  than  he  came,  re- 
plying but  at  intervals  to  the  raillery  of  those  with  him,  and  then 
giving  them  pretty  savage  cuts.  He  was  more  out  of  humor 
with  his  poverty  than  he  had  ever  felt,  and  not  at  all  satisfied 
with  the  accomplishments  which  might  have  emboldened  him  to 
forget  it.  However,  in  spite  of  his  delicacies,  he  felt  it  would 
be  impossible  not  to  hazard  rejection  like  the  rest.  He  only 
made  up  his  mind  to  set  about  paying  these  addresses  in  a  dif- 
ferent  manner  ; — though  how  it  was  to  be  done  he  could  not 
very  well  see.  His  first  impulse  was  to  go  to  her  and  state  the 
plain  case  at  once  ;  to  say  how  charming  she  was,  and  how 
poor  her  lover,  and  that  nevertheless  he  did  not  care  two- pence 
for  her  riches,  if  she  would  but  believe  him.  The  only  delight 
of  riches  would  be  to  share  them  with  her.  "  But  then,"  said 
he,  "  how  is  she  to  take  my  word  for  that  ?" 

On  arriving  at  home  he  found  his  sister  prepared  to  tell  him 
what  he  had  found  out  for  himself, — that  Pomona  was  not  proud. 
Unfortunately  she  added,  that  the  beautiful  heiress  had  acquired 
a  horror  of  her  younger  brothers.  "  Ay,"  thought  he,  "  there 
it  is.  I  shall  not  get  her,  precisely  because  I  have  at  once  the 
greatest  need  of  her  money,  and  the  greatest  contempt  for  it. 
Alas,  yet  not  so  !  I  have  not  contempt  for  anything  that  belongs 
to  her,  even  her  money.  How  heartily  could  I  accept  it  from 
her,  if  she  knew  me,  and  if  she  is  as  generous  as  I  take  her  to 
be !  How  delightful  would  it  be  to  plant,  to  build,  to  indulge  a 
thousand  expenses  in  her  company  !  O,  those  rascals  of  rich 
men,  without  sense  or  taste,  that  are  now  going  about,  spending 
their  money  as  they  please,  and  buying  my  jewels  and  my  cabi- 
nets, that  I  ought  to  be  making  her  presents  of.  I  could  tear 
my  hair  to  think  of  it." 

It  happened,  luckily  or  unluckily  for  our  hero,  that  he  was  the 


chaf  VIII.]    STORY  OF  VERTUMNUS  AND  POMONA.  201 

best  amateur  actor  that  had  ever  appeared.     Betterton  could  not 
perform  Hamlet  better,  nor  Lacy  a  friar. 

He  disguised  himself,  and  contrived  to  get  hired  in  his  lady's 
household  as  a  footman.  It  was  a  difficult  matter,  all  the  other 
servants  having  been  there  since  she  was  a  child,  and  just  grown 
old  enough  to  escape  the  passion  common  to  all  who  saw  her. 
They  Joved  her  like  a  daughter  of  their  own,  and  were  indignant 
at  the  trouble  her  lovers  gave  her.  Vertumnus,  however,  made 
out  his  case  so  well,  that  they  admitted  him.  For  a  time,  all 
went  on  smoothly.  Yes :  for  three  or  four  weeks  he  performed 
admirably,  confining  himself  to  the  real  footman.  Nothing  could 
exceed  the  air  of  indifferent  zeal  with  which  he  waited  at  table. 
He  was  respectful,  he  was  attentive,  even  officious  ;  but  still  as 
to  a  footman's  mistress,  not  as  to  a  lover's.  He  looked  in  her 
face,  as  if  he  did  not  wish  to  kiss  her ;  said  "  Yes,  ma'am  "  and 
"  No,  ma'am,"  like  any  otiier  servant ;  and  consented,  not  with- 
out many  pangs  to  his  vanity,  to  wear  proper  footman  s  clothes: 
namely,  such  as  did  not  fit  him.  He  even  contrived,  by  a  violent 
effort,  to  suppress  all  appearance  of  emotion,  when  he  doubled 
up  the  steps  of  her  chariot,  after  seeing  the  finest  foot  and  ancle 
in  the  world.  In  his  haste  to  subdue  this  emotion,  he  was  one 
day  near  betraying  himself.  He  forgot  his  part  so  far,  as  to 
clap  the  door  with  more  vehemence  than  usual.  His  mistress 
started,  and  gave  a  cry.  He  thought  he  had  shut  her  hand  in 
and  opening  the  door  again,  with  more  vehemence,  and  as  pair 
as  death,  exclaimed,  "  In  the  name  of  Mercy  !  what  have  I  don< 
to  her?" 

"  Nothing,  James,"  said  his  mistress,  smiling  ;  "  only  anothei 
time  you  need  not  be  in  quite  such  a  hurry."  She  was  surprised 
at  the  turn  of  his  words,  and  at  a  certain  air  which  she  observed 
for  the  first  time ;  but  the  same  experience  which  might  have  ena- 
bled her  to  detect  him,  led  her,  by  a  reasonable  vanity,  to  think  that 
love  had  exalted  her  footman's  manners.  This  made  herobservo 
him  with  some  interest  afterwards,  and  notice  how  good-looking  he 
was,  and  that  his  shape  was  better  than  his  clothes  ;  but  ho 
continued  to  act  his  part  so  well,  that  she  suspected  nothing 
further.  She  only  resolved,  if  he  gave  any  more  evidences  of 
being  in  love,  to  despatch  him  after  his  betters. 


202  THE  COMPANION.  [chap  vih. 

By  degrees,  our  hero's  nature  became  too  much  for  his  art. 
He  behaved  so  well  among  his  fellow  servants,  that  they  all  took 
a  liking  to  him.  Now,  when  we  please  others,  and  they  show 
it,  we  wish  to  please  them  more :  and  it  turned  out  that  Jamea 
could  play  on  the  viol  di  gamha.  He  played  so  well,  that  his 
mistress  must  needs  inquire  "  what  musician  they  had  in  the 
house."  **  James,  madam." — A  week  or  two  after,  somebody 
was  reading  a  play,  and  making  them  all  die  with  laughter. — 
"  Who  is  that  reading  so  well  there,  and  making  you  all  a  parcel 
of  mad-caps  ?" — "  It's  only  James,  madam." — "  I  have  a  pro- 
digious  footman  !"  thought  Pomona.  Another  day,  my  lady's- 
maid  came  up  all  in  tears  to  do  something  for  her  mistress,  and 
could  scarcely  speak.  "What's  the  matter,  Lucy?"  "Oh, 
James,  madam  !"  Her  lady  blushed  a  little,  and  was  going  to 
be  angry. 

"  I  hope  he  has  not  been  uncivil." 

"  Oh  no,  ma'am :  only  I  could  not  bear  his  being  turned  out 
o'  doors !" 

"  Turned  out  of  doors  !" 

"  Yes,  ma'am  ;  and  their  being  so  cruel  as  to  singe  his  white 
head." 

"  Singe  his  white  head  !  Surely  the  girl's  head  is  turned. 
What  is  it,  poor  soul  ?" 

"  Oh,  nothing,  ma'am.  Only  the  old  king  in  the  play,  as  your 
ladyship  knows.  They  turn  him  out  o'  doors,  and  singe  his 
white  head ;  and  Mr.  James  did  it  so  natural  like,  that  he  has 
made  us  all  of  a  drown  of  tears.  T'other  day  he  called  me  his 
Ophelia,  and  was  so  angry  with  me  I  could  have  died." — "  This 
man  is  no  footman,"  said  the  lady.  She  sent  for  him  up  stairs, 
and  the  butler  with  him.  "  Pray,  sir,  may  I  beg  the  favor  of 
knowing  who  you  are  ?"  The  abruptness  of  this  question  totally 
confounded  our  hero. 

"  Do  not  think  it  worth  your  while,  madam,  to  be  angry  with 
me,  and  I  will  tell  you  all.'^ 

"  Worth  my  while,  sir  !  I  know  not  what  you  mean  by  its 
being  worth  my  wliile,"  cried  our  heroine,  who  really  felt  more 
angry  than  she  wished    to    be :  "  but  when  an  impostor  conies 


eflAP.  vui.]    STORY  OF  VERTUMNUS  AND  POMONA.  2u3 

into   the   house,    it  is   natural    to    wish   to   be   on  one's  guard 
against  him." 

"  Impostor,  madam  !"  said  he,  reddening  in  his  turn,  and  rising 
with  an  air  of  dignity.  "  It  is  true,"  he  added  in  an  humbler 
tone,  "  I  am  not  exactly  what  I  seem  to  be ;  but  I  am  a  younger 
brother  of  a  good  family,  and — " 

"  A  younger  brother!"  exclaimed  Pomona,  turning  away  with 
a  look  of  despair. 

"  Oh,  those  harsh  words !"  thought  Vertumnus  ;  "  they  have 
undone  me.     ]  must  go  ;  and  yet  it  is  hard." 

"  I  go,  madam,"  said  he,  in  a  hurry : — "  believe  me  in  only 
this,  that  I  shall  give  you  no  unbecoming  disturbance ;  and  I 
must  vindicate  myself  so  far  as  to  say,  that  I  did  not  come  into 
this  house  for  what  you  suppose."  Then  giving  her  a  look  of 
inexpressible  tenderness  and  respect,  and  retiring  as  he  said  it, 
with  a  low  bow,  he  added,  "  May  neither  imposture  nor  unhap- 
])iness  ever  come  near  you." 

Pomona  could  not  help  thinking  of  the  strange  footman  she 
had  had.  "  He  did  not  come  into  the  house  for  what  I  sup- 
posed." She  did  not  know  whether  to  be  pleased  or  not  at  this 
phrase.  What  did  he  mean  by  it  ?  What  did  he  think  she 
supposed  ?  Upon  the  whole,  she  found  her  mind  occupied  with 
the  man  a  little  too  much,  and  proceeded  to  busy  herself  with 
her  orchard. 

There  was  now  more  caution  observed  in  admitting  new  ser- 
vants into  the  house  ;  yet  a  new  gardener's  assistant  came,  who 
behaved  like  a  reasonable  man  for  two  months.  He  then  pas- 
sionately exclaimed  one  morning,  as  Pomona  was  rewarding  him 
for  some  roses,  "  I  cannot  bear  it !" — and  turned  out  to  be  our 
hero,  who  was  obliged  to  decamp.  My  lady  became  more  cau- 
tious than  ever,  and  would  speak  to  all  the  new  servants  herself. 
One  day  a  very  remarkable  thing  occurred.  A  whole  side  of 
the  green-house  was  smashed  to  pieces.  The  glazier  was  sent 
for,  not  without  suspicion  of  being  the  perpetrator  ;  and  the  man's 
way  of  behaving  strengthened  it,  for  he  stood  looking  about  him, 
and  handling  the  glass  to  no  purpose.  His  assistant  did  all  the 
work,  and  yet  somehow  did  not  soem  to  get  on  with  it.  'J'he 
trutii  was.  the   ffllow  was  iiinoconl  and  yet  not  so,  for   lie   had 


204  THE  COMPANION.  Lchap.  viii. 

brought  our  hero  with  him  as  his  journeyman.     Pomona,  watch 
ing  narrowly,  discovered  the   secret,  but  for  reasons  best  known 
to  herself,  pretended  otherwise,  and  the  men  were  to  come  again 
next  day. 

That  same  evening  my  lady's  maid's  cousin's  husband's  aunt 
came  to  see  her, — a  free,  jolly,  maternal  old  dame,  who  took 
the  liberty  of  kissing  the  mistress  of  the  house,  and  thanking 
her  for  all  favors.  Pomona  had  never  received  such  a  long 
kiss.  "  Excuse,"  cried  the  housewife,  "  an  old  body  who  has 
had  daughters  and  grand-daughters,  ay,  and  three  husbands  to 
boot,  rest  their  souls !  but  dinner  always  makes  me  bold — old 
and  bold  as  we  say  in  Gloucestershire — old  and  bold ;  and  her 
ladyship's  sweet  face  is  like  an  angel's  in  heaven,"  All  this 
was  said  in  a  voice  at  once  loud  and  trembling,  as  if  the  natural 
jollity  of  the  old  lady  was  counteracted  by  her  years. 

Pomona  felt  a  little  confused  at  this  liberty  of  speech  ;  but 
her  good-nature  was  always  uppermost,  and  she  respected  the 
privileges  of  age.  So,  with  a  blushing  face,  not  well  knowing 
what  to  say,  she  mentioned  something  about  the  old  lady's  three 
husbands,  and  said  she  hardly  knew  whether  to  pity  her  most  for 
losing  so  many  friends,  or  to  congratulate  the  gentlemen  on  so 
cheerful  a  companion.  The  old  lady's  breath  seemed  to  be 
taken  away  by  the  elegance  of  this  compliment,  for  she  stood 
looking  and  saying  not  a  word.  At  last  she  made  signs  of  being 
a  little  deaf,  and  Betty  repeated  as  well  as  she  could  what  her 
mistress  had  said.  "  She  is  an  angel,  for  certain,"  cried  the 
gossip,  and  kissed  her  again.  Then  perceiving  that  Pomona 
was  prepared  to  avoid  a  repetition  of  this  freedom,  she  said, 
"  But,  why  doesn't  her  sweet  ladyship  marry  herself,  and  make 
somebody's  life  a  heaven  upon  earth  ?  They  tell  me  she's 
frightened  at  the  cavaliers  and  the  money-hunters,  and  all  that ; 
must  there  be  no  honest  man  that's  poor ;  and  mayn't  the  dear 
sweet  soul  be  the  jewel  of  some  one's  eye,  because  she  has  money 
in  her  pocket  ?" 

Pomona,  who  had  entertained  some  such  reflections  as  these 
herself,  liardly  knew  what  to  answer ;  but  she  laughed  and 
made  some  pretty  speech. 

"  Ay,  ay,"  resumed  the  old  woman.     "  Well,  there's  no  know- 


CHAP.  VIII.]  STORY  OF  VERTUMNUS  AND  POMONA.  'i05 

ing,"  (Here  she  heaved  a  great  sigh.)  "And  so  my  lady  ia 
mighty  curious  in  plants  and  apples,  they  tell  me,  and  quite  a 
gardener,  love  her !  and  rears  me  cartloads  of  peaches.  Why, 
her  face  is  a  peach,  or  I  should  like  to  know  what  is.  But 
it  didn't  come  of  itself  neither.  No,  no  ;  for  that  matter  there 
were  peaches  before  it ;  and  Eve  didn't  live  alone,  I  warrant 
me,  or  we  should  have  no  peaches  now,  for  all  her  garden- 
ing. Well,  well,  my  sweet  young  lady,  don't  blush  and  be 
angry,  for  I  am  but  a  poor  foolish,  old  body,  you  know,  old 
enough  to  be  your  grandmother ;  but  I  can't  help  thinking  it  a 
pity,  that's  the  truth  on't.  Oh  dear!  Well,  gentlefolks  will 
have  their  fegaries,  but  it  was  very  different  in  my  time,  you 
know ;  and  now  to  speak  the  plain  scripter  truth  ;  what  would 
the  world  come  to,  and  where  would  her  sweet  ladyship  be  her- 
self, I  should  like  to  know,  if  her  own  mother,  that's  now  an 
angel  in  Heaven,  had  refused  to  keep  company  with  her  lady, 
ship's  father,  because  she  brought  him  a  good  estate,  and  made 
him  the  happiest  man  on  the  earth  !" 

The  real  love  that  existed  between  Pomona's  father  and 
mother  being  thus  brought  to  her  recollection,  touched  our  hero- 
ine's feelings ;  and  looking  at  the  old  dame,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  she  begged  her  to  stay  and  take  some  tea,  and  she  would 
see  her  again  before  she  went  away.  "  Ay,  and  that  I  will, 
and  a  thousand  thanks  into  the  bargain  from  one  who  has  been  a 
mother  herself,  and  I  can't  help  crying  to  see  my  lady  in  tears. 
I  could  kiss  'em  off,  if  I  warn't  afraid  of  being  troublesome  ;  and 
so,  bless  her,  I'll  make  bold  to  make  her  my  curtsey  again  before 
I  go." 

The  old  body  seemed  really  affected,  and  left  the  room  with 
more  quietness  than  Pomona  had  looked  for.  Betty  meanwhile 
showed  an  eagerness  to  get  her  away,  which  was  a  little  re- 
markable. In  less  than  half  an  hour,  there  was  a  knock  at  the 
parlor  door,  and  Pomona  saying.  "  Come  in,"  the  door  was  held 
again  by  somebody  for  a  few  seconds,  during  which  there  was  a 
loud  and  apparently  angry  whisper  of  voices.  Our  heroine,  not 
without  agitation,  heard  the  words,  "No,  no!"  and  "Yes,"  re- 
peated with  vehemence,  and  then,  "  I  tell  you  I  must  and  will  ; 
ahe  will  foigivo  you,  be  assured,  and  me  too,  for  she'll  never  sea 


20(3  THE  COMPANION.  [chap.  vin. 

me  again."  And  at  these  words  the  door  was  opened  by  a  gal- 
lant-looking young  man,  who  closed  it  behind  him,  and  advanc- 
ing with  a  low  bow,  spoke  as  follows  : — 

"  If  you  are  alarmed,  madam,  which  I  confess  you  reasona- 
bly may  be  at  this  intrusion,  I  beseech  you  to  be  perfectly  cer- 
tain that  you  will  never  be  so  alarmed  again,  nor  indeed  ever 
again  set  your  eyes  on  me,  if  it  so  please  you.  You  see  before 
you,  madam,  that  unfortunate  younger  brother  (for  I  will  not 
omit  even  that  title  to  your  suspicion),  who,  seized  with  an  in- 
vincible passion  as  he  one  day  beheld  you  from  your  garden 
wall,  has  since  run  the  chance  of  your  displeasure,  by  coming 
into  the  house  under  a  variety  of  pretences,  and  inasmuch  as 
he  has  violated  the  truth  has  deserved  it.  But  one  truth  he 
has  not  violated,  which  is,  that  never  man  entertained  a  passion 
sincerer :  and  God  is  my  witness,  madam,  how  foreign  to  my 
heart  is  that  accursed  love  of  money  (I  beg  your  pardon,  but 
I  confess  it  agitates  me  in  my  turn  to  speak  of  it),  which 
other  people's  advances  and  your  own  modesty  have  natu- 
rally induced  you  to  suspect  in  every  person  situated  as  I  am. 
Forgive  me,  madam,  for  every  alarm  I  have  caused  you,  thii 
last  one  above  all.  I  could  not  deny  to  my  love  and  my  re- 
pentance the  mingled  bliss  and  torture  of  this  moment ;  but 
as  I  am  really  and  passionately  a  lover  of  truth  as  well  as  oi 
yourself,  this  is  the  last  trouble  I  shall  give  you,  unless  you 
are  pleased  to  admit  what  I  confess  I  have  very  little  hope  of, 
which  is  a  respectful  pressure  of  my  suit  in  future.  Pardon 
me  even  these  words,  if  they  displease  you.  You  have  nothing 
to  do  but  to  bid  me — leave  you  ;  and  when  he  quits  this 
apartment,  Harry  Vernon  troubles  you  no  more." 

A  silence  ensued  for  the  space  of  a  few  seconds.  The  gen- 
tleman was  very  pale  ;  so  was  the  lady.  At  length  she  said,  in 
a  very  undertone,  "  This  surprise,  sir — I  was  not  insensible — I 
mean,  I  perceived — sure,  sir,  it  is  not  Mr.  Vernon,  the  brother 
of  my  cousin's  friend,  to  whom  I  am  speaking  ?" 

"  The  same,  madam." 

"  And  why  not  at  once,  sir — I  mean — that  is  to  say — Forgive 
me,  sir,  if  circumstances  conspire  to  agitate  me  a  little,  and  lo 
throw  me  in  doubt  uiiat  I  ought  to  say.     I  wish  to  say  what  is 


CHAP.  VIII  ]    STORY  OF  VERTUMNUS  AND  POMONA.  207 

becoming,  and  to  retain  your  respect ;"  and  the  lady  trembled 
as  she  said  it. 

"  My  respect,  madam,  was  never  profounder  than  it  is  at  this 
moment,  even  though  I  dare  begin  to  hope  that  you  will  not 
think  it  disrespectful  on  my  part  to  adore  you.  If  I  might  but 
hope,  that  months  or  years  of  service — " 

"  Be  seated,  sir,  I  beg  ;  I  am  very  forgetful.  I  am  an  orphan 
Mr.  Vernon,  and  you  must  make  allowances  as  a  gentleman  " 
(nere  her  voice  became  a  little  louder)  "  for  anything  in  which 
I  may  seem  to  forget,  either  what  is  due  to  you  or  to  myself." 

The  gentleman  had  not  taken  a  chair,  but  at  the  end  of  this 
speech  he  approached  the  lady,  and  led  her  to  her  own  seat  with 
an  air  full  of  reverence. 

"  Ah,  madam,"  said  he,  "  if  you  could  but  fancy  you  had 
known  me  these  five  years,  you  would. at  least  give  me  credit  for 
enough  truth,  and  I  hope  enough  tenderness  and  respectfulness 
of  heart  (for  they  all  go  together)  to  be  certain  of  the  feelings  I 
entertain  towards  your  sex  in  general  ;  much  more  towards  one 
whose  nature  strikes  me  with  such  a  gravity  of  admiration  at 
this  moment,  that  praise  even  falters  on  my  tongue.  Could  I 
dare  hope  that  you  meant  to  say  anything  more  kind  to  me  than 
a  common  expression  of  good  wishes,  T  would  dare  to  say,  that 
the  sweet  truth  of  your  nature  not  only  warrants  your  doing  so, 
bji  makes  it  a  part  of  its  humanity." 

"  Will  you  tell  me,  Mr.  Vernon,  what  induced  you  to  say  so 
decidedly  to  my  servant  (for  I  heard  it  at  the  door)  that  you 
were  sure  I  should  never  see  you  again." 

"  Yes,  madam,  I  will  ;  and  nevertheless  I  feel  all  the  force  of 
your  inquiry.  It  was  the  last  little  instinctive  stratagem  that 
love  induced  me  to  play,  even  when  I  was  going  to  put  on  the 
whole  force  of  my  character  and  my  love  of  truth  !  for  I  did 
indeed  believe  that  you  would  discard  me,  though  I  was  not 
so  sure  of  it  as  I  pretended." 

"  There,  sir,"  said  Pomona,  coloring  in  all  the  beauty  of  joy 
and  love,  "  there  is  my  hand.  I  give  it  to  the  lover  of  truth  ; 
but  truth  no  less  forces  me  to  acknowledge,  that  my  heart  had 
not  been  unshaken  by  some  former  occurrences." 

"Charming    niid   ndorable    crr-ature  !"  cried    our  hero,  aftei 


208  THE  COMPANION.  [chap,  vm, 

he  had  recovered  from  the  kiss  which  he  gave  her.  But 
here  we  leave  them  to  themselves.  Our  heroine  confessed, 
that  from  what  she  now  knew  of  her  feelings,  she  must 
have  been  inclined  to  look  with  compassion  on  him  before ; 
but  added,  that  she  never  could  have  been  sure  she  loved  him, 
much  less  had  the  courage  to  tell  him  so,  till  she  had  known 
him  in  his  own  candid  shape. 

And  this,  and  no  other,  is  the  true  story  of  Vertumnus  and 
Pomona. 


CKAP.  DC]  THE  GRACES  OF  PIG-DRIVING.  203 


CHAPTER  IX. 

On  the  Graces  and  Anxieties  of  Pig-Driving. 

From  the  perusal  of  this  article  we  beg  leave  to  warn  off  vul- 
gar readers  of  all  denominations,  whether  of  the  "  great  vulgar 
or  the  small."  Warn,  did  we  say  ?  We  drive  them  off;  for 
Horace  tells  us  that  they,  as  well  as  pigs,  are  to  be  so  treated. 
Odi  profanum  vulgus,  says  he,  et  arceo.  But  do  thou  lend  thine 
ear,  gentle  shade  of  Goldsmith,  who  didst  make  thy  bear-leader 
denounce  "  everything  as  is  low  ;"  and  thou  Steele,  who  didst  hu- 
manize upon  public-houses  and  puppet-shows ;  and  Fielding, 
thou  whom  the  great  Richardson,  less  in  that  matter  (and  some 
others)  than  thyself,  did  accuse  of  vulgarity,  because  thou  didst 
discern  natural  gentility  in  a  footman,  and  yet  was  not  to  be 
taken  in  by  the  airs  of  Pamela  and  my  lady  G. 

The  title  is  a  little  startling;  but  "  style  and  sentiment,"  as  a 
lady  said,  "  can  do  anything."  Remember  then,  gentle  reader, 
that  talents  are  not  to  be  despised  in  the  humblest  walks  of  life  ; 
we  will  add,  nor  in  the  muddiest.  The  other  day  we  happened 
to  be  among  a  set  of  spectators  who  could  not  help  stopping  to 
admire  the  patience  and  address  with  which  a  pig-driver  hud- 
dled and  cherished  onward  his  drove  of  unaccommodating 
eleves,  down  a  street  in  the  suburbs.  He  was  a  born  genius  for 
a  manoeuvre.  Had  he  originated  in  a  higher  sphere,  he  would 
have  been  a  general,  or  a  stage-manager,  or  at  least  the  head 
of  a  set  of  monks.  Conflicting  interests  were  his  forte ;  pig- 
headed wills,  and  proceedings  hopeless.  To  see  the  hand  with 
which  he  did  it !  How  hovering,  yet  firm  ;  how  encouraging; 
yet  compelling  ;  how  indicative  of  the  space  on  each  side  of 
him,  and  yet  of  the  line  before  him  ;  how  general,  how  particu- 
lar, how  perfect  !  No  barber's  could  quiver  about  a  head  wiih 
more  lightness  of  apprehension  ;   no  cook's  pat  up  and   propor- 


2.'0  THE  COMPANION.  [ohap.  ix. 

tion  the  side  of  a  pasty  with  a  more  final  eye.     The  whales^ 
quoth  old  Chapman,  speaking  of  Neptune. 

The  whales  exulted  under  him,  and  knew  their  mighty  king. 

The  pigs  did  not  exult,  but  they  knew  their  king.  Unwilling 
was  their  subjection,  but  "  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger." 
They  were  too  far  gone  for  rage.  Their  case  was  hopeless. 
They  did  not  see  why  they  should  proceed,  but  they  felt  them- 
selves bound  to  do  so  ;  forced,  conglomerated,  crowded  onwards, 
irresistibly  impelled  by  fate  and  Jenkins.  Often  would  they 
have  bolted  under  any  other  master.  They  squeaked  and 
grunted  as  in  ordinary ;  they  sidled,  they  shuffled,  they  half 
stopped  ;  they  turned  an  eye  to  all  the  little  outlets  of  escape  ; 
but  in  vain.  There  they  stuck  (for  their  very  progress  was  a 
sort  of  sticking),  charmed  into  the  centre  of  his  sphere  of  ac- 
tion, laying  their  heads  together,  but  to  no  purpose ;  looking 
all  as  if  they  were  shrugging  their  shoulders,  and  eschewing 
the  tip  end  of  the  whip  of  office.  Much  eye  had  they  to  their 
left  leg ;  shrewd  backward  glances ;  not  a  little  anticipative 
squeak,  and  sudden  rush  of  avoidance.  It  was  a  superfluous 
clutter,  and  they  felt  it  ;  but  a  pig  finds  it  more  difficult  than 
any  other  animal  to  accommodate  himself  to  circumstances. 
Being  out  of  his  pale,  he  is  in  the  highest  state  of  wonderment 
and  inaptitude.  He  is  sluggish,  obstinate,  opinionate,  not  very 
social ;  has  no  desire  of  seeing  foreign  parts.  Think  of  him 
in  a  multitude,  forced  to  travel,  and  wondering  what  the  devil  it 
is  that  drives  him  !     Judge  by  this  of  the  talents  of  his  driver. 

We  beheld  a  man  once,  an  inferior  genius,  inducting  a  pig  into 
the  other  end  of  Long-lane,  Smithfield.  He  had  got  him  thus 
far  towards  the  market.  It  was  much.  His  air  announced  suc- 
cess in  nine  parts  out  of  ten,  and  hope  for  the  remainder.  It 
had  been  a  happy  morning's  work  ;  he  had  only  to  look  for  the 
termination  of  it ;  and  he  looked  (as  a  critic  of  an  exalted  turn 
of  mind  would  say)  in  brightness  and  in  joy.  Then  would  he 
go  to  the  public-house,  and  indulge  in  porter  and  a  pleasing  se- 
curity. Perhaps  he  would  not  say  much  at  first,  being  oppressed 
with  the  greatness  of  his  success  ;   but  by  degrees,  especially  if 


CHAP,  ix.]  THE  GRACES  OF  PIG-DRIVING.  211 

interrogated,  he  would  open,  like  ^Eneas,  into  all  the  circumstan- 
ces of  his  journey  and  the  perils  that  beset  him.  Profound 
would  be  his  set  out ;  full  of  tremor  his  middle  course  ;  high 
and  skilful  his  progress ;  glorious,  though  with  a  quickened 
pulse,  his  triumphant  entry.  Delicate  had  been  his  situation  in 
Duckingpond  row  ;  masterly  his  turn  at  Bell-alley.  We  saw 
him  with  the  radiance  of  some  such  thought  on  his  countenance. 
He  was  just  entering  Long-lane.  A  gravity  came  upon  him, 
as  he  steered  his  touchy  convoy  into  this  his  last  thoroughfare. 
A  dog  moved  him  into  a  little  agitation,  darting  along ;  but  he 
resumed  his  course,  not  without  a  happy  trepidation,  hovering 
as  he  was  on  the  borders  of  triumph.  The  pig  still  required 
care.  It  was  evidently  a  pig  with  all  the  peculiar  turn  of  mind 
of  his  species  ;  a  fellow  that  would  not  move  faster  than  he 
could  help  ;  irritable  ;  retrospective  ;  picking  objections,  and 
prone  to  boggle  ;  a  chap  with  a  tendency  to  take  every  path  but 
the  proper  one,  and  with  a  sidelong  tact  for  the  alleys. 

He  bolts ! 

He's  off! — Evasit  !  erupit  ! 

*'  Oh  !"  exclaimed  the  man,  dashing  his  hand  against  his  head, 
lifting  his  knee  in  an  agony,  and  screaming  with  all  the  weight 
of  a  prophecy  which  the  spectators  felt  to  be  too  true,  '^  He'll  go 
up  all  manner  of  streets  !" 

Poor  fellow  !  we  think  of  him  now  sometimes,  driving  up  Duke, 
street,  and  not  to  be  comforted  in  Barbican. 

39 


8-12  THE  COMPANION.  [chap.  z. 


CHAPTER  X. 

Pantomimes 

He  that  says  he  does  not  like  a  pantomime,  either  says  what  he 
does  not  think,  or  is  not  so  wise  as  he  fancies  himself.  He 
should  grow  young  again  and  get  wiser.  "  The  child,"  as  the 
poet  says,  "  is  father  to  the  man  ;  "  and  in  this  instance  he  has 
a  very  degenerate  offspring.  Yes,  John  Tomkins,  aged  35, 
and  not  liking  pantomimes,  is  a  very  unpromising  little  boy. 
Consider,  Tomkins,  you  have  still  a  serious  regard  for  pudding, 
and  are  ambitious  of  being  thought  clever.  Well,  there  is  the 
Clown  who  will  sympathize  with  you  in  dumplings  ;  and  not  to 
see  into  the  cleverness  of  Harlequin's  quips  and  metamorpho- 
ses, is  to  want  a  perception,  which  other  little  boys  have  by  na- 
ture.  Not  to  like  pantomimes,  is  not  to  like  animal  spirits ;  it 
is  not  to  like  motion  ;  not  to  like  love  ;  not  to  like  a  jest  upon 
dulness  and  formality ;  not  to  smoke  one's  uncle  ;  not  to  like  to 
see  a  thump  in  the  face  ;  not  to  laugh  ;  not  to  fancy  ;  not  to 
like  a  holiday  ;  not  to  know  the  pleasure  of  sitting  up  at  Christ- 
mas ;  not  to  sympathize  with  one's  children ;  not  to  remember 
that  we  have  been  children  ourselves  ;  nor  that  we  shall  grow 
old,  and  be  as  gouty  as  Pantaloon,  if  we^^are  not  as  wise  and  as 
active  as  they. 

Not  wishing  to  be  dry  on  so  pleasant  a  subject,  we  shall  waive 
the  learning  that  is  in  us  on  the  origin  of  these  popular  enter- 
tainments.  It  will  be  sufficient  to  observe,  that  among  the  Ita- 
lians, from  whom  we  borrowed  them,  they  consisted  of  a  run  of 
jokes  upon  the  provincial  peculiarities  of  their  countrymen. 
Harlequin,  with  his  giddy  vivacity,  was  the  representative  of 
the  inhabitant  of  one  state  ;  Pantaloon,  of  the  imbecile  careful- 
ness of  another ;  the  Clown,  of  the  sensual,  macaroni-eating 
Neapolitan,  with  his  instinct  for  eschewing  danger  ;  and  Colum- 
bine, Harlequin's  mistress,  was  the  type,  not  indeed  of  the  out- 


OHAP.  X.]  PANTOMIMES.  213 

ward  woman  (for  the  young  ladies  were  too  restrained  in  that 
matter),  but  of  the  inner  girl  of  all  the  lasses  in  Italy, — the 
tender  fluttering  heart, — the  turtle  dove  [colombina),  ready  to 
take  flight  with  the  first  lover  and  pay  oflf  old  scores  with  the 
gout  and  the  jealousy,  that  had  hitherto  kept  her  in  durance. 

The  reader  has  only  to  transfer  the  characters  to  those  of  his 
own  countrymen,  to  have  a  lively  sense  of  the  effect  which  these 
national  pictures  must  have  had  in  Italy.  Imagine  Harlequin,  a 
gallant  adventurer  from  some  particular  part  of  the  land,  full  of 
life  and  fancy,  sticking  at  no  obstacles,  leaping  gates  and  win- 
dows, hitting  oflT  a  satire  at  every  turn,  and  converting  the  very 
scrapes  he  gets  in,  to  matters  of  jest  and  triumph.  The  old  gen- 
tleman that  pursues  him,  is  a  miser  from  some  manufacturing 
town,  whose  ward  he  ha.s  run  away  with.  The  Clown  is  a  Lon- 
don cockney,  with  a  prodigious  eye  to  his  own  comfort  and  muf- 
fins,— a  Lord  Mayor's  fool,  who  loved  "  everything  that  was 
good  ;"  and  Colilmbine  is  the  boarding-school  girl,  ripe  for  run- 
ning away  with,  and  making  a  dance  of  it  all  the  way  from 
Chelsea  to  Gretna  Green. 

Pantomime  is  the  only  upholder  of  comedy,  when  there  is 
nothing  else  to  show  for  it.  It  is  the  satirist,  or  caricaturist  of 
the  times,  ridiculing  the  rise  and  fall  of  hats  and  funds,  the 
growth  of  aldermen  or  of  bonnets,  the  pretences  of  quackery ; 
and  watching  innovations  of  all  sorts,  lest  change  be  too  hasty. 
But  this  view  of  it  is  for  the  older  boys.  For  us,  who,  upon  the 
strength  of  our  sympathy,  boast  of  being  among  the  young  ones, 
its  life,  its  motion,  its  animal  spirits  are  the  thing.  We  sit 
among  the  shining  faces  on  all  sides  of  us,  and  fancy  ourselves 
at  this  moment  enjoying  it.  What  whim !  what  fancy  !  what 
eternal  movement !  The  performers  are  like  the  blood  in  one's 
veins,  never  still ;  and  the  music  runs  with  equal  vivacity 
through  the  whole  spectacle,  like  the  pattern  of  a  watered  ribbon. 

In  comes  Harlequin,  demi-masked,  party-colored,  nimble-toed, 
lithe,  agile  ;  bending  himself  now  this  way,  now  that  ;  bridling 
up  like  a  pigeon  ;  tipping  out  his  toe  like  a  dancer  ;  then  taking 
a  fantastic  skip ;  then  standing  ready  at  all  points,  and  at  right 
angles  with  his  omnipotent  lath-sword,  the  emblem  of  the  con- 
verting power  of  fancy  and  light-heartedness.     Giddy  as  we 


214  THE  COMPANION.  [chap.  x. 

think  him,  he  is  resolved  to  show  us  that  his  head  can  bear  mort 
giddiness  than  we  fancy  ;  and  lo  !  beginning  with  it  by  degrees, 
he  whirls  it  round  into  a  very  spin,  with  no  more  remorse  than 
if  it  were  a  button.  Then  he  drawo  his  sword,  slaps  his 
enemy,  who  has  just  come  upon  him,  mto  a  settee ;  and  spring- 
ing upon  him,  dashes  through  the  window  like  a  swallow.  Let 
us  hope  that  Columbine  and  the  high  road  are  on  the  other  side, 
and  that  he  is  already  a  mile  on  the  road  to  Gretna :  for 

Here  comes  Pantaloon,  with  his  stupid  servant ;  not  the  Clown, 
but  a  proper  grave  blockhead,  to  keep  him  in  heart  with  him- 
self.  What  a  nobbling  old  rascal  it  is  !  How  void  of  any 
hardsome  infirmity  !  His  very  gout  is  owing  to  his  having 
lived  upon  twopence  farthing.  Not  finding  Harlequin  and  Col- 
umbine,  he  sends  his  servant  to  look  in  the  further  part  of  the 
house,  while  he  hobbles  back  to  see  what  has  become  of  that 
lazy  fellow  the  Clown. 

He,  the  cunning  rogue,  who  has  been  watching  mid-way,  and 
now  sees  the  coast  clear,  enters  in  front, — round-faced,  goggle- 
eyed,  knock-kneed,  but  agile  to  a  degree  of  the  dislocated,  with 
a  great  smear  for  his  mouth,  and  a  cap  on  his  head,  half  fool's 
and  half  cook's.  Commend  him  to  the  dinner  that  he  sees  on 
table,  and  that  was  laid  for  Harlequin  and  his  mistress.  Merry 
be  their  hearts :  there  is  a  time  for  all  thmgs  ;  and  while  they 
dance  through  a  dozen  inns  to  their  hearts'  content,  he  will  eat 
a  Sussex  dumpling  or  so.  Down  he  sits,  contriving  a  luxurious 
seat,  and  inviting  himself  with  as  many  ceremonies  as  if  he  had 
the  whole  day  before  him  :  but  when  he  once  begins,  he  seems 
as  if  he  had  not  a  moment  to  lose.  The  dumpling  vanishes  at  a 
cram  : — the  sausages  are  abolished  : — down  go  a  dozen  yards  of 
macaroni  : — and  he  is  in  the  act  of  paying  his  duties  to  a  gallon 
of  rum,  when  in  come  Pantaloon  and  his  servant  at  opposite 
doors,  both  in  search  of  the  glutton,  both  furious,  and  both  re- 
solved to  pounce  on  the  rascal  headlong.  They  rush  forward 
accordingly;  he  slips  from  between  them  with  a  "Hallo,  I 
say ;  "  and  the  two  poor  devils  dash  their  heads  against  one 
another,  like  rams.  They  rebound  fainting  asunder  to  the  stage- 
doors  :  while  the  Clown,  laughing  with  all  his  shoulders,  nods  a 
health  to  each,  and  finishes  his  draught.     He  then  holds  a  great 


CHAP.  X.]  PANTOMIMES.  215 

cask  of  a  snuff-box  to  each  of  their  noses,  to  bring  them  to ; 
and  while  they  are  sneezing  and  tearing  their  souls  out,  jogs  off 
at  his  leisure. 

Ah — here  he  is  again  on  his  road,  Harlequin  with  his  lass, 
fifty  miles  advanced  in  an  hour,  and  caring  nothing  for  his  pur- 
suers, though  they  have  taken  the  steam-coach.  Now  the 
lovers  dine  indeed ;  and  having  had  no  motion  to  signify,  join 
in  a  dance.  Here  Columbine  shines  as  she  ought  to  do.  The 
little  slender,  but  plump  rogue !  How  she  winds  it  hither  and 
thither  with  her  trim  waist,  and  her  waxen  arms  !  now  with  a 
hand  against  her  side,  tripping  it  with  no  immodest  insolence  in 
a  hornpipe;  now  undulating  it  in  a  waltz  ;  or  "caracoling"  it, 
as  Sir  Thomas  Urquhart  would  say,  in  the  saltatory  style  of  the 
opera ; — but  always  Columbine ;  always  the  little  dove  who  is 
to  be  protected  ;  something  less  than  the  opera-dancer,  and 
greater ;  more  unconscious,  yet  not  so ;  and  ready  to  stretch 
her  gauze  wings  for  a  flight,  the  moment  Riches  would  tear  her 
from  Love. 

But  these  introductions  to  the  characters  by  themselves  do  not 
give  a  sufficient  idea  of  the  great  pervading  spirit  of  the  panto- 
mime, which  is  motion  ;  motion  for  ever,  and  motion  all  at  once. 
Mr.  Jacob  Bryant,  who  saw  everything  in  anything,  and  needed 
nothing  but  the  taking  a  word  to  pieces  to  prove  that  his  boots 
and  the  constellation  Bootes  were  the  same  thing,  would  have 
recognized  in  the  word  Pantomime  the  Anglo-antediluvian  com- 
pound, a  Pant-o'' -mimes !  that  is  to  say,  a  set  of  Mimes  or 
Mimics,  all  panting  together.  Or  he  would  have  detected  the 
obvious  Anglo-Greek  meaning  of  a  set  of  Mimes,  expressing 
Pan,  or  Everything,  by  means  of  the  Toe, — Pan-Toe-Mime. 
Be  this  as  it  may.  Pantomime  is  certainly  a  representation  of 
the  vital  principle  of  all  things,  from  the  dance  of  the  planets 
down  to  that  of  Damon  and  Phillis.  Everything  in  it  keeps 
moving  ;  there  is  no  more  cessation  than  there  is  in  nature  ;  and 
though  we  may  endeavor  to  fix  our  attention  upon  one  mover  or 
set  of  movers  at  a  time,  we  are  conscious  that  all  are  going  on. 
The  Clown,  though  we  do  not  see  him,  is  jogging  somewhere; — 
Pantaloon  and  his  servant,  like  Saturn  and  his  ring,  are  still 
careering  it  behind  their  Mercury  and  Venus ;  and  when  Har. 

39* 


•Jie  THE  COMPANION.  [chap,  x 

lequin  and  Columbine  come  in,  do  we  fancy  they  have  been 
resting  behind  the  scenes  ?  The  notion  !  Look  at  them  :  they 
are  evidently  in  full  career :  they  have  been,  as  well  as  are, 
dancing  ;  and  the  music,  which  never  ceases  whether  they  are 
visible  or  not,  tells  us  as  much. 

Let  readers,  of  a  solemn  turn  of  mistake,  disagree  with  us  if 
they  please,  provided  they  are  ill-humored.  The  erroneous,  of 
a  better  nature,  we  are  interested  in  ;  having  known  what  it  is 
to  err  like  them.  These  are  apt  to  be  mistaken  out  of  modesty 
(sometimes  out  of  a  pardonable  vanity  in  wishing  to  be  esteem- 
ed); and  in  the  case  before  us,  they  will  sin  against  the  natural 
candor  of  their  hearts  by  condemning  an  entertainment  which 
they  enjoy,  because  they  think  it  a  mark  of  sense  to  do  so. 
Let  them  know  themselves  to  be  wiser  than  those  who  are 
really  of  that  opinion.  There  is  nothing  wiser  than  a  cheerful 
pulse,  and  all  innocent  things  which  tend  to  keep  it  so.  The 
crabbedest  philosopher  that  ever  lived  (if  he  was  a  philosopher, 
and  crabbed  against  his  will)  would  have  given  thousands  to  feel 
as  they  do ;  and  he  would  have  known,  that  it  redounded  to  hi* 
honor  and  not  to  his  disgrace,  to  own  it. 


CHAP.  XI.]  CRUELTY  TO  CHILDREN.  217 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Cruelty  to  Children. 

Readers  of  newspapers  are  constantly  being  shocked  with  the 
unnatural  conduct  of  parents  towards  their  children.  Some 
are  detected  in  locking  them  up  and  half-starving  them ;  others 
tax  them  beyond  their  strength,  and  scourge  them  dreadfully  for 
not  bearing  it ;  others  take  horrible  dislikes  to  their  children, 
and  vex  and  torture  them  in  every  way  they  can  think  of,  short 
of  subjecting  themselves  to  the  gallows.  In  most  cases  the 
tyranny  is  of  long  duration  before  it  is  exposed.  A  whole 
neighborhood  are  saddened  by  the  cries  of  the  poor  victim,  till 
they  are  obliged  to  rise  up  in  self-defence  and  bring  the  criminal 
to  justice.  By  this  we  may  judge  how  many  miseries  are  taking 
place  of  which  people  have  no  suspicion  ;  how  many  wretches 
have  crimes  of  this  sort,  to  account  for  the  evil  in  their  looks ; 
and  how  many  others,  more  criminal  because  more  lying,  go 
about  in  decent  repute,  while  some  oppressed  and  feeble  relative, 
awfully  patient,  is  awaiting  in  solitude  the  horror  of  the  return- 
ing knock  at  the  door. 

It  is  alleged  by  offenders  of  this  description,  that  the  children 
are  vicious  and  provoking ;  that  their  conduct  is  very  "  aggra- 
vating," as  the  phrase  is;  and  that  "nothing  can  mend  them 
but  blows," — which  never  do.  But  whence  come  the  faults  of 
children?  and  how  were  they  suffered  to  grow  to  such  a  height? 
Really, — setting  aside  these  monsters  of  unpaternity, — parents 
are  apt  to  demand  a  great  many  virtues  in  their  children,  which 
they  do  not  themselves  possess.  The  child,  on  the  mere  strength 
of  their  will,  and  without  any  of  their  experience,  is  expected 
to  have  good  sense,  good  temper,  and  Heaven  knows  how  many 
other  good  qualities ;  while  the  parents  perhaps,  notwithstanding 
all  the  lessons   thev  hnvn    recivr']  frnm    tinif  ;r^'    1r  ii'.l  •,  have 


218  THE  COMPANION.  [ohap.  xi 

little  or  nothing  of  any  of  them.  Above  all,  they  forgot  that, 
in  originating  the  bodies  of  their  cliildren,  they  originate  their 
minds  and  temperaments ;  that  a  child  is  but  a  continuation  of 
his  father  and  mother,  or  their  fathers  and  mothers,  and  kindred; 
that  it  is  further  modified  and  made  what  it  is  by  education  and 
bringing  up;  and  that  on  all  these  accounts  the  parents  have  no 
excuse  for  abusing  and  tormenting  it ;  unless  with  equal  wis- 
dom and  a  glorious  impartiality  they  should  abuse  and  torment 
themselves  in  like  manner, — scourge  their  own  flesh,  and  con- 
demn themselves  to  a  crust  and  a  black  hole.  If  a  father  were 
to  give  his  own  sore  legs  a  good  flogging  for  inheriting  ill- 
humors  from  his  ancestors,  he  might  with  some  show  of  reason 
proceed  to  punish  the  continuation  of  them  in  those  of  his  child. 
If  a  cruel  mother  got  into  a  handsome  tub  of  cold  water  of  a 
winter  morning,  and  edified  the  neighbors  with  the  just  and  re- 
tributive shrieks  which  she  thence  poured  forth  for  a  couple  of 
hours,  crying  out  to  her  deceased  "  mammy"  that  she  would  be 
a  good  elderly  woman  in  future,  and  not  a  scold  and  a  repro- 
bate, then  she  might  like  a  proper  mad  woman  (for  she  is  but 
an  improper  one  now)  put  her  child  into  the  tub  after  her,  and 
make  it  shriek  out  "  mammy"  in  its  turn. 

But  let  us  do  justice  to  all  one's  fellow-creatures,  not  for- 
getting these  very  "aggravating"  parents.  To  regard  them 
as  something  infernal,  and  forget  that  they,  as  well  as  their 
children,  have  become  what  they  are  from  circumstances  over 
which  they  had  no  control,  is  to  fall  into  their  own  error,  and 
forget  our  common  humanity.  We  believe  that  the  very  worst 
of  these  domestic  tyrants  (and  it  is  an  awful  lesson  for  the  best 
of  them)  would  have  been  shocked  in  early  life,  if  they  could 
have  been  shown,  in  the  magic  glass,  what  sort  of  beings  they 
would  become.  Suppose  one  of  them  a  young  man,  blooming 
with  health,  and  not  ill-natured,  but  subject  to  fits  of  sulkinesa 
or  passion,  and  not  very  wise  ;  and  suppose  that  in  this  glass  he 
sees  an  old  ill-looking  fellow,  scowling,  violent,  outrageous,  tor- 
menting with  a  bloody  scourge  his  own  child,  who  is  meagre, 
squalid,  and  half  starved, — "Good  God!"  he  would  cry,  "can 
that  be  myself?  Can  that  be  my  arm,  and  my  face  ?  And  that 
my  own  poor  little  child  ?     There   are  devils  then  and  I  am 


CHAP.  XT.]  CRUELTY  TO  CHILDREN.  219 

doomed  to  be  one  of  them."  And  the  tears  would  pour  into  his 
eyes.  No :  not  so,  poor  wretch  :  thou  art  no  devil — there  is  no 
such  thing  as  devilishness  or  pure  malice  for  its  own  sake ;  the 
very  cruellest  actions  are  committed  to  relieve  the  cravings  of 
the  perpetrator's  want  of  excitement,  more  than  to  hurt  another. 
But  though  no  devil,  you  are  very  ignorant,  and  are  not  aware 
of  your  ignorance.  The  energies  of  the  universe,  being  on  a 
gi-eat  scale,  are  liable,  in  their  progress  from  worse  to  better,  to 
great  roughness  in  the  working,  and  appalling  sounds  of  discord. 
The  wiser  you  become,  the  more  you  diminish  this  jarring,  and 
tend  to  produce  that  amelioration.  Learn  this,  and  be  neither 
appalled  nor  appalling  ;  or  if  your  reflections  do  not  travel  so  far, 
and  you  are  in  no  danger  of  continuing  your  evil  course  by  the 
subtle  desperations  of  superstition,  be  content  to  know,  that 
nobody  ill-treats  another,  who  is  satisfied  with  his  own  conduct. 
If  the  case  were  otherwise,  it  would  be  worse ;  for  you  would 
not  have  the  excuse  even  of  a  necessity  for  relieving  your  own 
sensations.  But  it  never  is  so,  sophisticate  about  it  as  you  may. 
The  very  pains  you  take  to  reconcile  yourself  to  yourself,  may 
show  you  how  much  need  you  have  of  doing  so.  It  is  nothing 
else  which  makes  the  silliest  little  child  sulky  ;  and  the  same 
folly  makes  the  grown  man  a  tyrant.  When  you  begin  to  ill- 
treat  your  child,  you  begin  to  punish  in  him  your  own  faults ; 
and  you  most  likely  do  nothing  but  beat  them  in  upon  him  with 
every  stroke  of  the  scourge :  for  why  should  he  be  wiser  than 
you  ?  Why  should  he  be  able  to  throw  off  the  ill-humors  of 
which  your  greater  energies  cannot  get  rid  ? 

These  thoughts  we  address  to  those  who  are  worthy  of  them  ; 
and  who  not  being  tyrants,  may  yet  become  such,  for  want  of 
reflection.  Vulgar  offenders  can  be  mended  only  with  the  whole 
progress  of  society,  and  the  advancement  of  education.  There 
is  one  thing  we  must  not  omit  to  say,  which  is,  that  the  best 
parents  are  apt  to  expect  too  much  of  their  children,  and  to  for 
got  how  much  error  they  may  have  committed  in  the  course  of 
■  •ringing  them  up.  Nobody  is  in  fault,  in  a  criminal  sense. 
Children  have  tlieir  excuses,  and  parents  have  their  excuses; 
liut  the  wiser  any  of  us  become,  the  less  we  exact  from  others, 
and  the  more  we  do  to  deserve  their  regard.     The  great  art  of 


•220  THE  COMPANION.  [chap.  xi. 

being  a  good  parent  consists  in  setting  a  good  example,  and  in 
maintaining  that  union  of  dispassionate  firmness  with  habitual 
good-humor,  which  a  child  never  thinks  of  treating  with  disre- 
spect. 

We  have  here  been  speaking  principally  of  the  behavior  of 
parents  to  little  children.  When  violent  disputes  take  place  be- 
tween parents  and  children  grown  up, — young  men  and  women, 
— there  are  generally  great  faults  on  both  sides;  though,  for  an 
obvious  reason,  the  parent,  who  has  had  the  training  and  forma 
tion  of  the  other,  is  likely  to  be  most  in  the  wrong.  But  un- 
happily, very  excellent  people  may  sometimes  find  themselves 
hampered  in  a  calamity  of  this  nature  ;  and  out  of  that  sort  of 
weakness  which  is  so  often  confounded  with  strength,  turn  their 
very  sense  of  being  in  the  right,  to  the  same  hostile  and  implaca- 
ble purpose  as  if  it  were  the  reverse.  We  can  only  say,  that 
from  all  we  have  seen  in  the  world,  and  indeed  from  the  whole 
experience  of  mankind,  they  who  are  conscious  of  being  right, 
are  the  first  to  make  a  movement  towards  reconciliation,  let  the 
cause  of  quarrel  be  what  it  may  ;  and  that  there  is  no  surer 
method,  in  the  eyes  of  any  who  know  what  human  nature  is, 
both  to  sustain  the  real  dignity  of  the  right  side,  and  to  amend 
the  wrong  one.  To  kind-hearted  fathers  in  general,  who  have 
the  misfortune  to  get  into  a  dilemma  of  this  sort,  we  would  re- 
commend the  pathetic  story  of  a  French  general,  who  was  ob- 
served, after  the  death  of  his  son  in  battle,  never  to  hold  up  his 
head.  He  said  to  a  friend,  "  My  boy  was  used  to  think  me 
severe  ;  and  he  had  too  much  reason  to  do  so.  He  did  not  know 
how  I  loved  him  at  the  bottom  of  my  heart ;  and  it  is  now  too 
late." 


CHAP,  xn.]  HOUSES  ON  FIRE.  221 


CHAPTER    XU. 

Houses  on  Fire. 

It  is  astonishing  how  little  imagination  there  is  in  the  world,  in 
matters  not  affecting  men's  immediate  wants  and  importance. 
People  seem  to  require  a  million  thumps  on  the  head,  before 
they  can  learn  to  guard  against  a  head-ache.  This  would  be 
little ;  but  the  greater  the  calamity,  the  less  they  seem  to  pro- 
vide against  it.  All  the  fires  in  this  great  metropolis,  and  the 
frightful  catastrophes  which  are  often  the  result,  do  not  show  the 
inhabitants  that  they  ought  to  take  measures  to  guard  against 
them,  and  that  these  measures  are  among  the  easiest  things  in 
the  world.  Every  man  who  has  a  family,  and  whose  house  is 
too  high  to  allow  of  jumping  out  of  the  windows,  ought  to  con- 
sider himself  hound  to  have  a  fire-escape.  What  signifies  all  the 
care  he  has  taken  to  be  a  good  husband  or  father,  and  all  the 
provision  he  has  made  for  the  well-being  of  his  children  in  after- 
life, if,  in  one  frightful  moment,  in  the  dead  of  night,  with  horror 
glaring  in  their  faces,  and  tender  and  despairing  words  swallowed 
up  in  burning  and  suffocation, — amidst  cracking  beams  and 
rafters,  sinking  floors,  and  a  whole  yielding  gulf  of  agony, — they 
are  all  to  cease  to  be  ! — to  perish  like  so  many  vermin  in  a  wall ! 
Fire-escapes,  even  if  they  are  not  made  so  already  (as  we  believe 
they  are),  can  evidently  be  constructed  in  a  most  easy,  cheap, 
and  commodious  manner.  A  basket  and  a  double  rope  are  suf- 
ficient ;  or  two  or  three  would  be  better.  It  is  the  sudden  sense 
of  the  height  at  which  people  sleep,  and  the  despair  of  escape 
which  consequently  seizes  them,  for  want  of  some  such  provision, 
that  disables  them  from  thinking  of  any  other  resources.  Houses, 
it  is  true,  generally  have  trap-doors  to  the  roof;  but  these  are 
not  kept  in  readiness  for  use  ;  a  ladder  is  wanting  ;  or  the  door  is 
hard  to  be  got  up  ;  the  passage  to  it  is  difficult,  or  involved  in 
the  fire  ;  and  the  roof  may  not  be  a  safe  one  to  walk  over ;  chil- 


222  THE  COMPANION.  [chap  xn. 

dren  cannot  act  for  themselves  ;  terror  affects  the  older  people  , 
and  therefore,  on  all  these  accounts,  nothing  is  more  desirable 
than  that  the  means  of  escape  should  be  at  hand,  should  be  facile, 
and  capable  of  being  used  in  concert  with  the  multitude  below. 
People  out  of  doors  are  ever  ready  and  anxious  to  assist.  Those 
brave  fellows,  the  firemen,  would  complete  the  task,  if  time 
allowed,  and  circumstances  had  hitherto  prevented  it ;  and  han- 
dle the  basket  and  the  little  riders  in  it,  with  confidence,  like  so 
many  chickens.  A  time,  perhaps,  will  come,  when  every  win- 
dow in  a  high  bed-chamber  will  have  an  escape  to  it,  as  a  matter 
of  course  ;  but  it  is  a  terrible  pity,  meanwhile,  that  for  want  of  a 
little  imagination  out  of  the  common  pale  of  their  Mondays  and 
Wednesdays,  a  A^hole  metropolis,  piquing  themselves  on  their  love 
of  their  families,  should  subject  themselves  and  the  dearest 
objects  of  their  affection  to  these  infernal  accidents. 

In  an  honest  state  of  society,  houses  would  all  communicate 
with  one  another  by  common  doors ;  anr'  families  destroyed  by 
fire  would  be  among  the  monstrosities  of  *'tj^*o!'v. 


CHAP,  xiii.]  MILITARY  INSECTS.  223 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A  Battle  of  Anta. — Desirableness  of  Drawing  a  Distinction  between  Powers 
common  to  other  Animals,  and  those  peculiar  to  Man. 

Taking  up,  the  other  day,  a  number  of  the  Edinburgh  Journal 
of  Science,  we  met  with  the  following  account  of  a  battle  of  ants. 
It  is  contained  in  the  notice  of  a  memoir  by  M.  Hanhart,  who 
describes  the  battle  as  having  taken  place  between  two  species 
of  these  insects,  "  one  the  formica  rufa,  and  the  other  a  little 
black  ant,  which  he  does  not  name  (probably  ihefofusca).^^  In 
other  respects,  as  the  reviewer  observes,  the  subject  is  not  new, 
the  celebrated  Huber  having  described  a  battle  of  this  kind  be- 
fore ;  but  as  natural  history  lies  out  of  the  way  of  many  readers 
(though  calculated  to  please  them  all,  if  they  are  genuine  readers 
of  anything),  and  as  it  has  suggested  to  us  a  few  remarks  which 
may  further  the  objects  we  have  in  writing,  the  account  shall  be 
here  repeated. 

"  M.  Hanhart  saw  these  insects  approach  in  armies  composed 
of  their  respective  swarms,  and  advancing  towards  each  other  in 
the  greatest  order.  The  Formica  rufa  marched  with  one  in  front, 
on  a  line  from  nine  to  twelve  feet  in  length,  flanked  by  several 
corps  in  square  masses,  composed  of  from  twenty  to  sixty  indi- 
viduals. 

"  The  second  species  (little  blacks),  forming  an  army  much 
more  numerous,  marched  to  meet  the  enemy  on  a  very  extended 
line,  and  from  one  to  three  individuals  abreast.  They  left  a 
detachment  at  the  foot  of  their  hillock  to  defend  it  against  any 
unlooked-for  attack.  The  rest  of  the  army  marched  to  battle, 
with  its  right  wing  supported  by  a  solid  corps  of  several  hun- 
dred individuals,  and  the  left  wing  supported  by  a  similar  body 
of  more  than  a  thousand.  These  groups  advanced  in  the  great 
Kst  order,  and  without  changing  their  positions.    The  two  lateral 

40 


224  THE  COMPANION.  [chap.  xin. 

corps  took  no  part  in  the  present  action.  That  of  the  right  wing 
made  a  halt,  and  formed  an  army  of  reserve  ;  whilst  the  corps 
which  marched  in  column  on  the  left  wing,  manoeuvred  so  as  to 
turn  the  hostile  army,  and  advanced  with  a  hurried  ntiarch  to 
the  hillock  of  the  Formica  rufa,  and  took  it  by  assault. 

"  The  two  armies  attacked  each  other,  and  fought  for  a  long 
time,  without  breaking  their  lines.  At  length  disorder  appeared 
in  various  points,  and  the  combat  was  maintained  in  detached 
groups ;  and,  after  a  bloody  battle,  which  continued  from  three 
to  four  hours,  the  Formica  rufa  were  put  to  flight,  and  forced  to 
abandon  their  two  hillocks  and  go  off  to  establish  themselves  at 
some  other  point  with  the  remains  of  their  army. 

"  The  most  interesting  part  of  this  exhibition,  says  M.  Han- 
hart,  was  to  see  these  insects  reciprocally  making  prisoners,  and 
transporting  their  own  wounded  to  their  hillocks.  Their  de- 
votedness  to  the  wounded  was  carried  so  far,  that  the  Formica 
rufa,  in  conveying  them  to  their  nests,  allowed  themselves  to  be 
killed  by  the  little  blacks  without  any  resistance,  rather  than 
abandon  their  precious  charge. 

"  From  the  observations  of  M.  Huber,  it  is  known  that  when 
an  ant  hillock  is  taken  by  the  enemy,  the  vanquished  are  reduced 
to  slavery,  and  employed  in  the  interior  labors  of  their  habita- 
tion."—5mZ/.  Univ.,  Mai,  1826. 

There  is  no  sort  of  reason,  observe,  to  mistrust  these  accounts. 
The  "  lords  of  creation"  may  be  slow  in  admitting  the  ap- 
proaches of  other  animals  to  a  common  property  in  what  they 
consider  eminently  human  and  skilful ;  but  ants,  in  some  of 
their  habits,  have  a  great  resemblance  to  bees ;  and  after  what 
is  now  universally  known  respecting  the  polity  and  behavior  of 
the  bees,  the  doubt  will  rather  be,  whether  a  share  in  the  arts  of 
war  and  government  is  not  possessed  by  a  far  greater  number  of 
beings  than  we  have  yet  discovered. 

Here  then,  among  a  set  of  little  creatures  not  bigger  than 
grains  of  rice,  is  war  in  its  regular  human  shape  ;  war,  not  only 
in  its  violence,  but  its  patriotism  or  fellow-feeling  ;  and  not  only 
in  its  patriotism  (which,  in  our  summary  mode  of  settling  all 
creatures'  affections  but  our  own,  might  be  referred  to  instinct), 
but  war  in   its  science  and  battle  array  !     The  red  ants  make 


CHAP.  XIII.]  MILITARY  INSECTS.  22.1 

their  advance  in  a  line  from  nine  to  twelve  feet  in  length,  flanked 
by  several  corps  in  square  masses  ;  the  "  little  blacks,"  more 
numerous,  come  up  three  abreast,  leaving  a  detachment  at  the 
foot  of  their  hillock  to  defend  against  unlooked-for  attack.  There 
are  wings  right  and  left ;  they  halt ;  they  form  an  army  of 
reserve  ;  one  side  manceuvresso  as  to  turn  the  other  ;  the  hillock 
is  taken  by  assault ;  the  lines  are  broken  ;  and  in  fine,  after  a 
"  bloody  battle  "  of  three  or  four  hours,  the  red  ants  are  put 
to  flight. 

What  is  there  different  in  all  this  from  a  battle  of  Waterloo  or 
Malplaquet?  We  look  down  upon  these  little  energetic  and 
skilful  creatures,  as  beings  of  a  similar  disproportion  might  look 
upon  us ;  and  do  we  not  laugh  ?  We  may  for  an  instant, — ■ 
thinking  of  the  little  Wellingtons  and  Napoleons  that  may  have 
led  them  ;  but  such  laughter  is  found  to  be  wrong  on  reflection, 
and  is  left  to  those  who  do  not  reflect  at  all,  and  who  would  be 
the  first  to  resent  laughter  against  themselves. 

What  then  do  we  do  ?  Are  we  to  go  into  a  corner,  and  eflemi- 
nately  weep  over  the  miseries  of  the  formican,  as  well  as  the 
human,  race  ?  saying,  how  short  is  the  life  of  ant !  and  tliat 
Fourmls  Cometh  up,  and  is  cut  down  like  a  Frenchman  ?  By  no 
means.  But  we  may  contribute,  by  our  reflections,  an  atom  to 
the  sum  of  human  advancement;  and  if  men  advance,  all  the 
creatures  of  this  world,  for  aught  we  know,  may  advance  with 
them,  or  the  places  in  which  evil  is  found  be  diminished. 

A  little  before  we  read  this  account  of  the  battle  of  the  ants, 
we  saw  pass  by  our  window  a  troop  of  horse;  a  set  of  gallant 
fellows,  on  animals  almost  as  noble  ;  the  band  playing  and  colors 
flying  ;  a  strenuous  sight ;  a  progress  of  human  hearts  and  thick- 
coming,  trampling  hoofs  ;  a  crowd  of  wills,  composed  into  order 
and  beauty  by  the  will  of  another ;  ready  death  in  the  most  gal- 
lant shape  of  life ;  self-sacrifice  taking  out  its  holiday  of  admi- 
ration in  the  eyes  of  the  feeble  and  the  heroical,  and  moving 
through  the  sunshine  to  sounds  of  music,  as  if  one  moment  of  tiio 
very  show  of  sympathy  were  worth  any  price,  even  to  its  dwii 
confusion. 

Was  it  all  this  ?  or  was  it  nothing  but  a  set  of  more  imposing 
animals,  led  by  others  about  half  as  thoughtless?     Was  it  an 


226  THE  COMPANION.  [chap,  xiii 

imposition  on  themselves  as  well  as  the  public,  enticing  the  poor 
souls  to  be  dressed  up  for  the  slaughter  ?  a  mass  of  superfluous 
human  beings,  cheated  to  come  together,  in  order,  as  Mr.  Malthus 
thinks,  that  the  superfluity  may  be  got  rid  of,  and  the  great  have 
elbow-room  at  their  feasts  1  or  was  it  simply,  as  other  philoso- 
phers think,  because  human  experience  is  still  in  its  boyhood, 
and  men,  in  some  respects,  are  not  yet  beyond  the  ants  ? 

The  sight  of  one  of  these  military  shows  is,  to  us,  the  most 
elevating  and  the  most  humiliating  thing  in  the  world.  It  seems 
at  once  to  raise  us  to  the  gods,  and  to  sink  us  to  the  brutes. 
We  feel  of  what  noble  things  men  are  capable,  and  into  what 
half-witted  things  they  may  be  deluded.  At  one  moment  we 
seem  to  ride  in  company  with  them  to  some  glorious  achieve- 
ment, and  rejoice  in  constituting  a  part  of  all  that  strength  and 
warm  blood  which  is  to  be  let  out  for  some  great  cause.  At  the 
next,  they  appear  to  us  a  parcel  of  poor  fools  tricked,  and  trick- 
ed out ;  and  we,  because  we  are  poorer  ones,  who  see  without 
being  able  to  help  it,  must  fain  have  the  feeble  tears  come  in 
our  eyes.  Oh!  in  that  sorry  little  looking-glass  of  a  tear,  how 
many  great  human  shows  have  been  reflected,  and  made  less  ! 

But  these  weaknesses  belong  to  the  physical  part  of  us.  Phi- 
losophy sees  further,  and  hopes  all.  That  war  is  an  unmixed 
evil,  we  do  not  believe.  We  are  sure  it  is  otherwise.  It  sets  in 
motion  many  noble  qualities,  and  (in  default  of  a  better  instru- 
ment) often  does  a  great  deal  of  good.  That  it  is  not,  at  the  same 
time,  a  great  and  monstrous  evil,  we  believe  as  little.  One 
field,  after  a  battle,  with  the  cries  of  the  wounded  and  the  dying, 
the  dislocations,  the  tortures,  the  defeatures,  and  the  dismember- 
ings, the  dreadful  lingering  (perhaps  on  a  winter's  night),  the 
shrieks  for  help,  and  the  agonies  of  mortal  thirst, — is  sufficient  to 
do  away  all  shallow  and  blustering  attempts  to  make  us  take  the 
show  of  it  for  the  substance.  Even  if  we  had  no  hope  that  the 
world  could  ever  get  rid  of  war,  we  should  not  blind  ourselves  to 
this  its  ghastly  side  ;  for  its  evils  would  then  accumulate  for 
want  of  being  considered  ;  and  it  is  better  at  all  times  to  look  a 
truth  manfully  in  the  face,  than  trust  for  security  ourselves,  or 
credulity  from  others,  to  an  effeminate  hiding  of  our  eyes.  But 
the  same  love  of  truth  that  disguises  nothing,  may  hope  every. 


CHAF.xiu.]  MILITARY  INSECTS.  221 

Jiing  ;  and  it  is  this  that  shall  carry  the  world  forward  to  bene- 
tits  unthought  of,  if  men  of  genius  once  come  to  set  it  up  as 
tluiir  guide  and  standard. 

What  we  intended  by  our  present  article  was  this  :  to  suggest, 
whether  wo  ought  to  value  ourselves  on  any  custom  or  skill 
which  we  possess  in  common  with  the  lower  animals  ;  or 
whether  we  ought  not  rather  to  consider  the  participation  as  an 
argument,  that,  in  that  respect,  we  have  not  yet  got  beyond  the 
commonest  instinct.  If  the  military  conduct  of  the  ants  be  not 
instinct  (or  whatsoever  human  pride  pleases  to  understand  by  that 
term),  then  are  they  in  possession,  so  far,  of  human  reason,  and 
so  far  we  do  not  see  beyond  them.  If  it  be  instinct,  then  war, 
and  the  conduct  of  it,  are  not  the  great  things  we  suppose  them  ; 
and  a  Wellington  and  a  Washington  may  but  follow  the  impulse 
of  some  mechanical  energy,  just  as  some  insects  are  supposed  to 
construct  their  dwellings  in  a  particular  shape,  because  they 
partake  of  it  in  their  own  conformation.  In  either  case,  we  con- 
ceive, we  ought  to  remind  ourselves,  that  the  greatest  distinction 
hitherto  discovered  between  men  and  other  creatures  is,  that  the 
numan  being  is  capable  of  improvement,  and  of  seeing  beyond 
the  instincts  common  to  all.  Therefore,  war  is  not  a  thing  we 
arrive  at  after  great  improvement  ;  it  is  a  thing  we  begin  with, 
before  any ;  and  what  we  take  for  improvements  in  the  mode  of 
conducting  it,  are  only  the  result  of  such  circumstances  as  can 
be  turned  to  account  by  creatures  no  higher  in  the  scale  of  be- 
ing than  insects. 

We  make  very  disingenuous  use  of  the  lower  animals,  in  our 
reasonings  and  analogies.  If  we  wish  to  degrade  a  man,  we  say 
he  acts  like  a  brute; — if,  on  the  other  hand,  we  would  vindicate 
any  part  of  our  conduct  as  especially  natural  and  proper,  we 
say  the  very  brutes  do  it.  Now,  in  one  sense  of  the  word,  eve- 
rything is  natural  which  takes  place  within  the  whole  circle  of 
nature  ;  and  being  animals  ourselves,  we  partake  of  much  that 
is  common  to  all  animals.  But  if  we  are  to  pique  ourselves  on 
our  superiority,  it  is  evident  that  we  are  superior  in  proportion 
as  we  are  rationally  and  deliberately  ditTrrcnt  from  the  animals 
beneath  us;   while  thcv,  on  the  other  hanfl,  liave  a  ri'j;!it  to  share 

40* 


S2S  THE  COMPANION.  Jchap.  xiii. 

our  "  glory,"  or  to  pull  it  dovvij,   according  to  the  degrees   in 
which  they  resemble  us. 

The  conclusion  is,  that  we  ought  attentively  to  consider  in 
what  points  the  resemblance  is  to  be  found,  and  in  what  we 
leave  them  manifestly  behind.  Creatures  who  dif.sr  from  our- 
selves may,  it  is  true,  have  perceptions  of  which  w  i  are  incapa- 
ble, perhaps  nobler  ones  ;  but  this  is  a  mere  assum  -'ion  :  we  can 
only  reason  from  what  we  know  ;  and  it  is  to  be  j  resumed,  that 
they  are  as  inferior  to  us  in  all  which  we  reckon  it  xllectual  and 
capable  of  advancem^t,  as  they  are  known  to  ^e  so  in  gen- 
eral by  their  subjection  to  our  uses,  by  the  h-  Ips  which  we 
can  afford  them,  by  the  mistakes  they  make,  the  f  )ints  at  which 
they  stop  short,  and  the  manner  in  which  we  cs  i  put  to  flight 
their  faculties,  and  whole  myriads  of  them. 

What  faculties  then  have  beasts  and  insects  i  common  with 
us?  What  can  they  do,  that  we  do  also? — Le  us  see.  Bea- 
vers can  build  houses,  and  insects  of  various  jorts  can  build 
cells.  Birds  also  construct  themselves  dwellinj  places  suitable 
to  their  nature.  The  orang-outang  can  be  ti-  ight  to  put  on 
clothes;  he  can  sit  up  and  take  his  wine  at  (  nner ;  and  the 
squirrel  can  play  his  part  in  a  dessert,  as  far  a;  the  cracking  of 
nuts.  Animals,  in  general,  love  personal  clea  illness,  and  eat 
no  more  than  is  fit  for  them,  but  can  be  encc'  aged  into  great 
sensuality.  Bees  have  a  monarchical  gover^rjent :  foxes  un- 
derstand trick  and  stratagems  ;  so  do  hundred.*:  of  other  animals, 
from  the  dog  down  to  the  dunghill-beetle  ;  m?in;y  are  capable  of 
pride  and  emulation,  more  of  attachment,  and  all  of  fear,  of  an- 
ger, of  hostility,  or  other  impulses  for  self-defence  ;  and  all  per- 
haps are  susceptible  of  improvementyrom  without  ;  that  is  to  say, 
by  the  help  of  man.  Seals  will  look  on  while  their  young  ones 
fiijht,  and  pat  and  caress  the  conqueror  ;  and  now  it  is  discov- 
( rod  that  ants  can  conduct  armies  to  battle,  can  make  and  res- 
cue prisoners,  and  turn  them  to  account.  Huber,  in  addition  to 
those  discoveries,  found  out  that  they  possessed  a  sort  of  cattle 
in  a  species  of  aphides,  and  that  they  made  them  yield  a  secre- 
tion for  food,  as  we  obtain  milk  from  the  cows.  It  appears  tc 
be  almost  equally  proved,  that  animals  have  modes  of  com^mni- 
eating  with  one  another,  analogous  to  speech.     Insects  an   'ino 


OHAP.  xni.]  MILITARY  INSECTS.  229 

posed  to  interchange  a  kind  of  dumb  language, — to  talk,  as  it 
were,  with  fingers, — by  means  of  their  antennce  ;  and  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  believe,  that  in  the  songs  of  birds  there  is  not  both  speech 
and  inflection,  communications  in  the  gross,  and  expressions 
modified  by  the  occasion. 

Let  the  reader,  however,  as  becomes  his  philosophy,  take  from 
all  this  whatever  is  superfluous  or  conjectural,  and  enough  will 
remain  to  show,  that  the  least  and  lowest  animals,  as  well  as  man, 
can  furnish  themselves  with  dwellings  ;  can  procure  food  ;  can 
trick  and  deceive  ;  are  naturally  clean  and  temperate,  but  can 
taught  to  indulge  their  senses;  have  the  ordinary  round  of 
passions  ;  encourage  the  qualities  necessary  to  vigor  and  self- 
defence  ;  have  polity  and  kingly  government ;  can  make  other 
animals  of  use  to  them ;  and,  finally,  can  make  war,  and  con- 
duct armies  to  battle  in  the  most  striking  mode  of  human 
strategy. 

Animals  in  general,  therefore,  include  among  themselves 

Masons,  or  house-builders ; 

Getters  of  bread  ; 

Common  followers  of  the  senses  ; 

Common-place  imitators ; 

Pursuers  of   their  own  interest,  in  cunning  as  well  as  in 

simplicity  ; 
Possessors  of  the  natural  affections  ; 
Encouragers  of  valor  and  self-exertion  ; 
Monarchs  and  subjects  ; 
Warriors,  and  leaders  to  battle. 

Whatever,  among  men,  is  reducible  to  any  of  these  classes, 
is  to  be  found  among  beasts,  birds,  and  insects.  We  are  not 
to  be  ashamed  of  anything  we  have  in  common  with  them, 
merely  because  we  so  have  it.  On  the  contrary,  we  are  to  be 
glad  that  any  quality,  useful  or  noble,  is  so  universal  in  the  crea- 
tion. But  whatever  we  discern  among  them,  of  sordid  or  selfish, 
there,  without  condemning  them,  we  may  see  the  lino  drawn,  be- 
yond we  can  alone  congratulate  ourselves  on  our  humanity  ; 
and  whatever  skill  they  possess  in  common  with  us,  there  we  are 


230  THE  COMPANION.  [chap     xiii 

to  begin  to  doubt  whether  we  have  any  reason  to  pique  ourselves 
on  our  display  of  it,  and  from  that  limit  we  are  to  begin  ^o  con- 
sider what  they  do  not  possess. 

We  have  often  had  a  suspicion,  that  military  talent  is  greatly 
overrated  by  the  world,  and  for  an  obvious  reason  ;  because  the 
means  by  which  it  shows  itself  are  connected  with  brute  force 
and  the  most  terrible  results  ;  and  men's  faculties  are  dazzled 
and  beaten  down  by  a  thunder  and  lightning  so  formidable  to 
their  very  existence.  If  playing  a  game  of  chess  involved  the 
the  blowing  up  of  gunpowder  and  the  hazard  of  laying  waste  a 
city,  men  would  have  the  same  grand  idea  of  a  game  at  chess  j 
and  yet  we  now  give  it  no  more  glory  than  it  deserves.  Now 
it  is  doubtful,  whether  the  greatest  military  conqueror,  consider- 
ed purely  as  such,  and  not  with  reference  to  his  accidental  pos- 
session of  other  talents,  such  as  those  of  Caesar  and  Xenophon, 
is  not  a  mere  chess-player  of  this  description,  with  the  addition 
of  greater  self-possession.  His  main  faculty  is  of  the  geometri- 
cal or  proportion  giving  order  ;  of  which  it  is  remarkable,  that 
it  is  the  only  one,  ranking  high  among  those  of  humanity,  which 
is  partaken  by  the  lowest  ignorance  and  what  is  called  pure  in- 
stinct ;  by  arithmetical  idiots,  and  architectural  bees.  Idiots 
have  been  known  to  solve  difficult  arithmetical  questions,  by 
taking  a  thought  which  they  could  do  for  no  other  purpose  ;  that 
is  to  say,  by  reference  to  some  undiscovered  faculty  within 
them,  that  looks  very  like  an  instinct,  and  the  result  of  the  pre- 
sence or  absence  of  something,  which  is  not  common  to  higher 
organisation.  In  Jamesori's  Philosophical  Journal  for  April,*  is 
a  conjecture,  that  the  hexagonal  plan  of  the  cells  of  a  hornet  is 
derived  from  the  structure  of  its  fore-legs.  It  has  often  struck  us, 
that  the  architecture  of  the  cells  of  bees  might  be  owing  to  simi- 
lar guidance  of  conformation  ;  and  by  the  like  analogy,  extraor- 
dinary powers  of  arithmetic  might  be  traceable  to  some  physical 
peculiarity,  or  a  tendency  to  it ;   such  as  the  indication  of  a  sixth 

*  See  the  Magazine  of  JVatural  History  for  July,  a  work  lately  set  up. 
We  beg  leave  to  recommend  this,  and  all  similar  works,  to  the  lovers  of 
truth  and  inquiry  in  general  ;  physical  discovery  having  greater  alliance 
with  moral  than  is  suspected,  and  the  habit  of  sincere  investigation  on  all 
points  being  greatly  encouraged  by  its  existence  on  any  one. 


[chap.  XIII.]  MILITARY  INSECTS.  231 

finger  on  the  hands  of  one  of  the  calculating  boys  that  were 
lately  so  much  talked  of.  We  have  sometimes  thought,  that 
even  the  illustrious  Newton  had  a  face  and  a  set  of  features  sin- 
gularly accordant  with  mathematical  uniformity  and  precision. 
And  there  is  a  professional  cast  of  countenance  attributed,  not 
perhaps  without  reason,  to  warriors  of  the  more  mechanical  or- 
der.    Washington's  face  was  as  cut  and  dry  as  a  diagram. 

It  may  be  argued,  that  whatever  proofs  may  exist  of  the  ac- 
quaintance of  insects  with  the  art  of  war,  or  at  least  with  their 
power  of  joining  battle  under  the  ordinary  appearances  of  skill  and 
science,  it  does  not  follow  that  they  conduct  the  matter  with  the 
real  science  of  human  beings,  or  that  they  are  acquainted  with 
our  variety  of  tactics,  or  have  made  improvements  in  them  from 
time  to  time.  We  concede  that  in  all  probability  there  is  a  dis- 
tinction between  the  exercise  of  the  most  rational-looking  in- 
stincts on  the  part  of  a  lower  animal,  and  the  most  instinctive- 
looking  reason  on  the  side  of  man  ;  but  where  the  two  classes 
have  so  much  in  common  in  any  one  particular,  what  we  mean 
to  show  is,  that  in  thai  particular  it  is  more  difficult  than  in 
others  to  pronounce  where  the  limit  between  conscious  and  uncon- 
scious skill  is  to  be  drawn  ;  and  tliat  so  far,  we  have  no  pretension 
which  other  animals  may  not  dispute  with  us.  It  has  been  often 
wondered,  that  a  great  general  is  not  in  other  respects  a  man 
above  the  vulgar ;  that  he  is  not  a  better  speaker  than  others  ; 
a  better  writer,  or  thinker,  or  possessed  of  greater  address  ;  in 
short,  that  he  has  no  qualities  but  such  as  are  essential  to  him 
in  his  military  capacity.  This  again  looks  like  a  proof  of  the 
mechanical  nature  of  a  general's  ability.  We  believe  it  may 
be  said  exclusively  of  military  talents,  and  of  one  or  two  others 
connected  with  the  mathematics,  that  they  are  the  only  ones 
capable  of  attaining  to  greatness  and  celebrity  in  their  respec- 
tive departments  with  a  destitution  of  taste  or  knowledge  in  eve- 
ry other.  Every  other  great  talent  partakes  more  or  less  of  a 
sympathy  with  greatness  in  other  shapes.  The  fine  arts  have 
their  harmonies  in  common  :  wit  implies  a  stock  of  ideas  :  the 
legislator — (we  do  not  mean  the  ordinary  conductors  of  govern- 
ment, for  they,  as  one  of  them  said,  recjuire  much  less  wisdom 
than  the  world  suj)po.ses  ;   and  it  may  lje  added,  impose  upon  the 


232  THE  COMPANION.  [chap  xiii 

world,  somewhat  in  the  same  manner  as  military  leaders,  by  dint 
of  the  size  and  potency  of  their  operations) — the  legislator 
makes  a  profound  study  of  all  the  wants  of  mankind  ;  and  poe- 
try and  philosophy  show  the  height  at  which  they  live,  by  "  look- 
ing abroad  into  universality." 

Far  be  it  from  us  to  undervalue  the  use  of  any  science,  espe- 
cially  in   the  hands  of  those   who   are   capable   of  so   looking 
abroad,  and  seeing  where  it  can  advance  the  good  of  the  com- 
munity.    The    commonest  genuine  soldier  has  a  merit  in  his 
way,  which  we  are  far  from  disesteeming.     Without  a  portion  of 
his   fortitude,  no  man  has  a  power  to  be  useful.      But  we   are 
speaking  of  intellects  capable  of  leading  society  onwards,  and 
not   of  instruments    however    respectable :    and    unfortunately 
(generally  speaking)  the  greatest  soldiers  are  fit  only  to  be  in- 
struments,  not  leaders.     Once  in  a  way  it  happens  luckily  that 
they  suit  the  times  they  live  in.     Washington  is  an  instance  : 
and  yet  if  ever  great  man  looked  like  "  a  tool   in  the  hands  of 
Providence,"  it  was  he.     He  appears  to  have   been  always  the 
same  man,  from  first  to  last,  employed  or   unemployed,  known 
or  unknown  ; — the  same   steady,  dry-looking,  determined  per- 
son, cut  and  carved  like  a  piece  of  ebony,  for  the  genius  of  the 
times  to  rule  with.     Before  the  work  was  begun,  there  he  was, 
a  sort  of  born  patriarchal  staff,  governing  herds  and   slaves  j 
and  when  the  work  was  over,  he  was  found  in  his  old  place,  with 
the   same  carved  countenance   and  the  same  stiff  inflexibility, 
governing  still.     And  his  slaves  were  found  with  him.     This  is 
what  a  soldier  ought  to   be.     Not  indeed  if  the  world  were  to 
advance  by  their  means,  and  theirs  only  ;   but  that  is  impossible. 
Washington  was  only  the  sword  with  which  Franklin   and  the 
spirit  of  revolution  worked   out  their   purposes  ;  and   a   sword 
should  be  nothing  but  a  sword.     The  moment  soldiers  come  to 
direct  the  intellect  of  their   age,  they  make  a  sorry  business  of 
it.     Napoleon  himself  did.     Frederick  did.     Even  Caesar  failed. 
As  to  Alfred  the  Great,  he  was  not  so  much  a  general  fighting 
with  generals   as  a   universal  genius  warring  with   barbarism 
and  adversity  ;   and  it  took  a  load  of  sorrow  to  make  even  him 
the  demigod  he  was. 

"  Stand  upon  the  ancient  ways,"  says  Bacon,  "  and  see  what 


CHAP,  xiii  1  MILITARY  INSECTS.  233 

steps  may  be  taken  for  progression."  Look,  for  the  same  pur- 
pose (it  may  be  said)  upon  the  rest  of  the  animal  creation,  and 
consider  the  qualities  in  which  they  have  no  share  with  you. 
Of  the  others,  you  may  well  doubt  the  greatness,  considered  as 
movers,  and  not  instruments,  towards  progression.  It  is  among 
the  remainder  you  must  seek  for  the  advancement  of  your  spe- 
cies. An  insect  can  be  a  provider  of  the  necessaries  of  life, 
and  he  can  exercise  power  and  organize  violence.  He  can  be 
a  builder  ;  he  can  be  a  soldier  ;  he  can  be  a  king.  But  to  all 
appearance,  he  is  the  same  as  he  was  ever,  and  his  works  perish 
with  him.  If  insects  have  such  and  such  an  establishment 
among  them,  we  conceive  they  will  have  it  always,  unless  men 
alter  it  for  them.  If  they  have  no  such  establishment,  they  ap- 
pear of  themselves  incapable  of  admitting  it.  It  is  men  only 
that  add  and  improve.  Men  only  can  bequeathe  their  souls  for 
the  benefit  of  posterity,  in  the  shape  of  arts  and  books.  Men 
only  can  philosophize,  and  reform,  and  cast  off  old  customs,  and 
take  steps  for  laying  the  whole  globe  nearer  to  the  sun  of  wis- 
dom and  happiness  :  and  in  proportion  as  you  find  them  capable 
of  so  hoping  and  so  working,  you  recognize  their  superiority  to 
the  brutes  that  perish. 


234  THE  COMPANION.  [chap   xiv 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

A  Walk  from  Dulwich  to  Brockham. 

IN    A    LETTER    TO    A    FRIEND. 

With  an  Original  Circumstance  or  two  respecting  Dr.  Johnson. 

Dear  Sir, 

As  other  calls  upon  my  pilgrimage  in  this  world  have  inter- 
rupted those  weekly  voyages  of  discovery  into  green  lanes  and 
rustic  houses  of  entertainment  which  you  and  I  had  so  ao-reea- 
bly  commenced,  I  thought  I  could  not  do  better  than  make  you 
partaker  of  my  new  journey,  as  far  as  pen  and  paper  could  do 
it.  You  are  therefore  to  look  upon  yourself  as  having  resolved 
to  take  a  walk  of  twenty  or  thirty  miles  into  Surrey  without 
knowing  anything  of  the  matter.  You  will  have  set  out  with 
us  a  fortnight  ago,  and  will  be  kind  enough  to  take  your  busts 
for  chambermaids,  and  your  music  (which  is  not  so  easy)  for 
the  voices  of  stage-coachmen. 

Illness,  you  know,  does  not  hinder  me  from  walking  ;  neither 
does  anxiet)-.  On  the  contrary,  the  more  I  walk,  the  better  and 
stouter  I  become  ;  and  I  believe  if  everybody  were  to  regard  the 
restlessness  which  anxiety  creates,  as  a  signal  from  nature  to 
get  up  and  contend  with  it  in  that  manner,  people  would  find  the 
benefit  of  it.  This  is  more  particularly  the  case  if  they  are 
lovers  of  Nature,  as  well  as  pupils  of  her,  and  have  an  eye  for 
the  beauties  in  which  her  visible  world  abounds  ;  and  as  I  may 
claim  the  merit  of  loving  her  heartily,  and  even  of  tracing  my 
sufferings  (when  I  have  them)  to  her  cause,  the  latter  are  never 
so  great  but  she  repays  me  with  some  sense  of  sweetness,  and 
leaves  me  a  certain  property  in  the  delight  of  others,  when  I 
have  little  of  my  own. 

"O  that  I  had  the  wings  of  a  dove  !"  said   the  royal  poet; 


CHAP  XIV.]  A  WALK  FROM  DULWICH  TO  BROCKHAM.  235 

"  then  would  I  fly  away  and  be  at  rest."  I  believe  there  are 
few  persons,  who  having  felt  sorrow,  and  anticipating  a  journey 
not  exactly  towards  it,  have  not  partaken  of  this  sense  of  the 
desirability  of  remoteness.  A  great  deal  of  what  we  love  in 
poetry  is  founded  upon  it ;  nor  do  any  feel  it  with  more  passion, 
than  those  whose  sense  of  duty  to  their  fellow-creatures  will 
not  allow  them  to  regard  retirement  as  anything  but  a  refresh- 
ment between  their  tasks,  and  as  a  wealth  of  which  all  ought 
to  partake. 

But  David  sighed  for  remoteness,  and  not  for  solitude.  At 
least,  if  he  did,  the  cares  of  the  moment  must  have  greatly 
overbalanced  the  habits  of  the  poet.  Neither  doves  nor  poets 
can  very  well  do  without  a  companion.  Be  that  as  it  may,  the 
writer  of  this  epistle,  who  is  a  still  greater  lover  of  companion- 
ship than  poetry  (and  he  cannot  express  his  liking  more  strongly), 
had  not  the  misfortune,  on  the  present  occasion,  of  being  com- 
pelled to  do  without  it ;  and  as  to  remoteness,  though  his  pil- 
grimage was  to  extend  little  beyond  twenty  miles,  he  had  not 
the  less  sense  of  it  on  that  account.  Remoteness  is  not  how  far 
you  go  in  point  of  ground,  but  how  far  you  feel  yourself  from 
your  common-places.  Literal  distance  is  indeed  necessary  in 
some  degree  ;  but  the  quantity  of  it  depends  on  imagination  and 
the  nature  of  circumstances.  The  poet  who  can  take  to  his 
wings  like  a  dove,  and  plunge  into  the  wood  nearest  him,  is  far- 
ther off,  millions  of  miles,  in  the  retreat  of  his  thoughts,  than 
the  literalist,  who  mu.st  get  to  Johnny  Groat's  in  order  to  con- 
vince himself  that  he  is  not  in  Edinburgh. 

Almost  any  companion  would  do,  if  we  could  not  make  our 
choice,  provided  it  loved  us  and  was  sincere.  A  horse  is  good 
company,  if  you  have  no  other  ;  a  dog  still  better.  I  have  often 
thought,  that  I  could  take  a  child  by  the  hand,  and  walk  with  it 
day  after  day  towards  the  north  or  the  east,  a  straight  road,  feel- 
inc  as  if  it  would  lead  into  another  world, 

"  Anil  think  'twould  lead  to  some  bright  isle  of  rest." 
But  I  should  have  to  go  back,  to  fetch  some  grown  friends. 

There  were  three  of  us  on  the  present  occasion,  grown  and 
young.  We  began  by  taking  the  Dulwich  stage  from  a  house 
in  Fleet-street,  where  a  drunken    man   came   into   the   tap,  and 

41 


236  THE  COMPANION.  [chap.  xir. 

was  very  pious.  He  recited  hymns  ;  asked  the  landlady  to 
shake  hands  with  him  ;  was  for  making  a  sofa  of  the  counter, 
which  she  prevented  by  thrusting  his  leg  off  with  scjme  indigna- 
tion  ;  and  being  hindered  in  this  piece  of  jollity,  he  sank  on  his 
knees  to  pray.  He  was  too  good-natured  for  a  Methodist ;  so 
had  taken  to  stiff  glasses  of  brandy-and-water, 

"  To  help  him  to  support  uneasy  steps 
Over  the  burning  marie." 

He  said  he  had  been  "  twice  through  the  gates  of  hell ;"  and 
by  his  drinking,  poor  fellow,  he  seemed  to  be  setting  out  on  his 
third  adventure.  We  called  him  Sin-bad.  By  the  way,  when 
you  were  a  boy,  did  you  not  think  that  the  name  of  Sindbad  was 
allegorical,  and  meant  a  man  who  had  sinned  very  badly  ? 
Does  not  every  little  boy  think  so  ?  One  does  not  indeed,  at 
that  time  of  life,  know  very  well  what  to  make  of  the  porter 
Hindbad,  who  rhymes  to  him  ;  and  I  remember  I  was  not  pleased 
when  I  came  to  find  out  that  Hind  and  Sind  were  component 
words,  and  meant  Eastern  and  Western. 

The  stage  took  us  to  the  Greyhound  at  Dulwich,  where,  though 
we  had  come  from  another  village  almost  as  far  off  from  Lon- 
don on  the  northern  side,  we  felt  as  if  we  had  newly  got  into 
the  country,  and  ate  a  hearty  supper  accordingly.  This  was  a 
thing  not  usual  with  us  ;  but  then  everybody  eats  "  in  the  coun- 
try ; " — there  is  "  the  air  ;  "  and  besides,  we  had  eaten  little 
dinner,  and  were  merrier,  and  "remote."  On  looking  out  of 
our  chamber  window  in  the  morning,  we  remarked  that  the  situ- 
ation of  the  inn  was  beautiful,  even  towards  the  road,  the  place 
is  so  rich  with  trees  ;  and  returning  to  the  room  in  which  we  had 
supped,  we  found  with  pleasure  that  we  had  a  window  there, 
presenting  us  with  a  peep  into  rich  meadows,  where  the  hay- 
makers were  at  work  in  their  white  shirts.  A  sunny  room, 
quiet,  our  remote  five  miles,  and  a  pleasant  subject  (the  Poetry, 
of  British  Ladies),  enabled  the  editorial  part  of  us  to  go  comfortu- 
bly  to  our  morning's  task  ;  after  which  we  left  the  inn  to  pro- 
ceed on  our  journey.  We  had  not  seen  Dulwich  for  many 
years,  and  were  surprised  to  find  it  still  so  full  of  trees.  It 
continues,  at  least  in  the  quarter  through  which  we  passed,  to 
deserve  the  recommendation  given  it  by  Armstrong,  of 


CHAP.  XIV.]  A  WALK  FROM  DULWICH  TO  BROCKHAM.  237 
"  Dulwich,  yet  unspoil'd  by  art." 

He  would  have  added,  had  he  lived,  now  that  art  had  come, 
even  to  make  it  better.  It  was  with  real  pain,  that  two  lovers 
of  painting  were  obliged  to  coast  the  walls  of  the  college  with- 
out seeing  the  gallery ;  but  we  have  vowed  a  pilgrimage  very 
shortly  to  those  remoter  places,  there  to  be  found  ;  to  wit,  the 
landscapes  of  Claude  and  Cuyp,  and  the  houses  of  Rembrandt ; 
and  we  shall  make  report  of  it,  to  save  our  character.  We 
know  not  whether  it  was  the  sultriness  of  the  day,  with  occasional 
heavy  clouds,  but  we  thought  the  air  of  Dulwich  too  warm,  and 
pronounced  it  a  place  of  sleepy  luxuriance.  So  it  appeared  to 
us  that  morning;  beautiful,  however,  and  "remote;"  and  the 
thought  of  old  Allen,  Shakspeare's  playmate,  made  it  still 
more  so. 

I  remember,  in  my  boyhood,  seeing  Sir  Francis  Bourgeois 
(the  bequeather  of  the  Dulwich  pictures)  in  company  with  Mr 
West,  in  the  latter's  gallery  in  Newman-street.  He  was  in 
buckskins  and  boots,  dandy  dress  of  that  time,  and  appeared  a 
lively,  good-natured  man,  with  a  pleasing  countenance,  proba- 
bly because  he  said  something  pleasant  of  myself ;  he  confirmed 
it  with  an  oath,  which  startled,  but  did  not  alter  this  opinion. 
Ever  afterwards  I  had  an  inclination  to  like  his  pictures,  which 
I  believe  were  not  very  good  ;  and  unfortunately,  with  whatever 
gravity  he  might  paint,  his  oath  and  his  buckskins  would  never 
allow  me  to  consider  him  a  serious  person  ;  so  that  it  somewhat 
surprised  me  to  hear  that  M.  Desenfans  had  bequeathed  him  his 
gallery  out  of  pure  regard  ;  and  still  more  that  Sir  Francis, 
when  he  died,  had  ordered  his  own  remains  to  be  gathered  to 
those  of  his  benefactor  and  Madame  Desenfans,  and  all  three 
buried  in  the  society  of  the  pictures  the)'  loved.  For  the  first 
time,  I  began  to  think  that  his  pictures  must  have  contained 
more  than  was  found  in  them,  and  that  I  had  done  wrong  (as  it 
is  customary  to  do)  to  the  gaiety  of  his  manners.  If  there  was 
vanity  in  the  bequest,  as  some  have  thought,  it  was  at  least  a 
vanity  accompanied  with  touching  circumstances  and  an  appear- 
ance of  a  very  social  taste  ;  and  as  most  people  have  their  vani- 
ties, it  might  be  as  well  for  them  to  think  what  sort  of  accom- 


238  THE  COMPANION.  [chap  xivr 

paniments  exalt  or  degrade  theirs,  or  render  them  purely  dull 
and  selfish.  As  to  the  Gallery's  being  "out  of  the  way,"  espe- 
cially for  students,  I  am  of  a  different  opinion,  and  for  two  rea- 
sons :  first,  that  no  gallery,  whether  in  or  out  of  the  way,  can 
ever  produce  great  artists,  nature,  and  perhaps  the  very  want 
of  a  gallery,  always  settling  that  matter  before  galleries  are 
thought  of;  and,  second,  because  in  going  to  see  the  pictures  in 
a  beautiful  country  village,  people  get  out  of  their  town  com- 
mon-places, and  are  better  prepared  for  the  perception  of  other 
beauties,  and  of  the  nature  that  makes  them  all.  Besides,  there 
is  probably  something  to  pay  on  a  jaunt  of  this  kind,  and  yet 
of  a  different  sort  from  payments  at  a  door.  There  is  no  illibe- 
ral demand  at  Dulwich  for  a  liberal  pleasure  ;  but  then  "  the 
inn  "  is  inviting  ;  people  eat  and  drink,  and  get  social  ;  and  the 
warmth  which  dinner  and  a  glass  diffuses,  helps  them  to  rejoicb 
doubly  in  the  warmth  of  the  sunshine  and  the  pictures,  and  i^ 
the  fame  of  the  great  and  generous. 

Leaving  Dulwich  for  Norwood  (where  we  rejoiced  to  hear- 
that  some  of  our  old  friends  the  Gipsies  were  still  extant),  we 
found  the  air  very  refreshing  as  we  ascended  towards  the  church 
of  the  latter  village.  It  is  one  of  the  dandy  modern  churches 
(for  they  deserve  no  better  name)  standing  on  an  open  hill,  as 
if  to  be  admired.  It  is  pleasant  to  see  churches  instead  of  Me- 
thodist chapels,  because  any  moderate  religion  has  more  of  real 
Christianity  in  it,  than  contumelious  opinions  of  God  and  the  next 
world  ;  but  there  is  a  want  of  taste,  of  every  sort,  in  these  new 
churches.  They  are  not  picturesque,  like  the  old  ones  ;  they 
are  not  humble  ;  they  are  not,  what  they  are  so  often  miscalled, 
classical.  A  barn  is  a  more  classical  building  than  a  church 
with  a  fantastic  steeple  to  it.  In  fact,  a  barn  is  of  the  genuine 
classical  shape,  and  only  wants  a  stone  covering,  and  pillars 
about  it,  to  become  a  temple  of  Theseus.  The  classical  shape 
is  the  shape  of  simple  utility  and  beauty.  Sometimes  we  see  it 
in  the  body  of  the  modern  church  ;  but  then  a  steeple  must  be 
put  on  it ;  the  artist  must  have  something  of  his  own  ;  and  hav- 
ing, in  fact,  nothing  of  his  own,  he  first  puts  a  bit  of  a  steeple, 
which  he  thinks  will  not  be  enough,  then  another  bit,  and  then 
another ;  adds  another  fantastic  ornament  here  and  there  to  his 


,:haf.  XIV.]  A  WALK  FROM  DULWICH  TO  BROCKHAM.  239 

building,  by  way  of  rim  or  "border,  like;"  and  so,  having  put 
his  pepper-box  over  his  pillars,  and  his  pillars  over  his  pepper 
box,  he  pretends  he  has  done  a  grand  thing,  while  he  knows  very 
well  that  he  has  only  been  perplexed,  and  a  bricklayer. 

For  a  village,  the  old  picturesque  church  is  the  proper  thing, 
with  its  tower  and  its  trees,  as  at  Hendon  and  Finchley  ;  or  its 
spire,  as  at  Beckenham.  Classical  beauty  is  one  thing,  Gothic 
or  Saxon  beauty  is  another ;  quite  as  genuine  in  its  way,  and  in 
this  instance  more  suitable.  It  has  been  well  observed,  that  what 
is  called  classical  architecture,  though  of  older  date  than  the 
Gothic,  really  does  not  look  so  old — does  not  so  well  convey  the 
sentiment  of  antiquity  ;  that  is  to  say,  the  ideal  associations  of 
this  world,  however  ancient,  are  far  surpassed  in  the  reach  of 
ages  by  those  of  religion,  and  the  patriarchs  and  another  world  ; 
not  to  mention  that  we  have  been  used  to  identify  them  with  the 
visible  old  age  of  our  parents  and  kindred  ;  and  that  Greek  and 
Roman  architecture,  in  its  smoothness  and  polish,  has  an  unfad- 
ing look  of  youth.  It  might  be  thought  that  the  erection  of  new 
churches  on  the  classical  principle  (taking  it  for  granted  that 
they  remind  us  more  of  Greek  and  Roman  temples,  than  of  their 
own  absurdity)  would  be  favorable  to  the  growth  of  liberality  ; 
that,  at  least,  liberality  would  not  be  opposed  by  it ;  whereas  the 
preservation  of  the  old  style  might  tend  to  keep  up  old  notions. 
We  do  not  think  so,  except  inasmuch  as  the  old  notions  would 
not  be  unfavorable  to  the  new.  New  opinions  ought  to  be  made 
to  grow  as  kindly  as  possible  out  of  old  ones,  and  should  pre- 
serve  all  that  they  contain  of  the  affectionate  and  truly  venera- 
ble. We  could  fancy  the  most  liberal  doctrines  preached  five 
hundred  years  hence  in  churches  precisely  like  those  of  our  an- 
cestors, and  their  old  dust  ready  to  blossom  into  delight  at  the 
arrival  of  true  Christianity.  But  these  new,  fine,  heartless- 
looking,  showy  churches,  neither  one  thing  nor  the  other,  have, 
to  our  eyes,  an  appearance  of  nothing  but  worldliness  and  a  job. 

We  descended  into  Streatham  by  the  lane  leading  to  the  White 
Lion  ;  the  which  noble  beast,  regardant,  looked  at  us  up  the 
larrow  passage,  as  if  intending  to  dispute  rather  than  invite  our 
approach  to  the  castle  of  his  hospitable  proprietor.  On  going 
nearer,  we  found  that  the  grimncss  of  his  aspect  was  purely  in 

41* 


240  THE  COMPANION.  Lchap.  xit 

our  imaginations,  the  said  lordly  animal  having,  in  fact,  a  coun 
tenance  singularly  humane,  and  very  like  a  gentleman  we  knew 
once  of  the  name  of  Collins. 

It  not  being  within  our  plan  to  accept  CoUins's  invitaiion,  we 
turned  to  the  left,  and  proceeded  down  the  village,  thinking  of 
Dr.  Johnson.  Seeing,  however,  an  aged  landlord  at  the  door, 
we  stepped  back  to  ask  him  if  he  remembered  the  Doctor.  He 
knew  nothing  of  him,  nor  even  of  Mr.  Thrale,  having  come  late, 
he  said,  to  those  parts.  Resuming  our  way,  we  saw,  at  the  end 
of  the  village,  a  decent-looking  old  man,  with  a  sharp  eye  and 
a  hale  countenance,  who,  with  an  easy,  self-satisfied  air,  as  if 
he  had  worked  enough  in  his  time  and  was  na  longer  under  the 
necessity  of  over-troubling  himself,  sat  indolently  cracking  stones 
in  the  road.  We  asked  him  if  he  knew  Dr.  Johnson  ;  and  he 
said,  with  a  jerk-up  of  his  eye,  "  Oh  yes  ; — /  knew  him  well 
enough."  Seating  myself  on  one  side  of  his  trench  of  stones,  I 
proceeded  to  have  that  matter  out  with  Master  Whatman  (for 
such  was  the  name  of  my  informant).  His  information  did  not 
amount  to  much,  but  it  contained  one  or  two  points  which  I  do 
not  remember  to  have  met  with,  and  every  addition  to  our 
knowledge  of  such  a  man  is  valuable.  Nobody  will  think  it 
more  so  than  yourself,  who  will  certainly  yearn  over  this  part 
of  my  letter,  and  make  much  of  it.  The  following  is  the  sum 
total  of  what  was  related : — Johnson,  he  said,  wore  a  silk  waist- 
coat embroidered  with  silver,  and  all  over  snuff.  The  snuff  he 
carried  loose  in  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and  would  take  a  handful 
of  it  out  with  one  hand,  and  help  himself  to  it  with  the  other. 
He  would  sometimes  have  his  dinner  brought  out  to  him  in  the 
park,  and  set  on  the  ground  ;  and  while  he  was  waiting  for  it, 
would  lie  idly,  and  cut  the  grass  with  a  knife.  His  manners 
were  very  good-natured,  and  sometimes  so  childish,  that  people 
would  have  taken  him  for  "an  idiot,  like."  His  voice  was 
"  low." — "  Do  you  mean  low  in  a  gruff  sense  ?" — "  No  :  it  was 
rather  feminine." — "  Then,  perhaps,  in  one  sense  of  the  word, 
it  was  high  ?" — "Yes,  it  was." — "  And  gentle  ?" — "  Yes,  very 
gentle  !" — (This,  of  course,  was  to  people  in  general,  and  to  the 
villagers.  When  he  dogmatised,  it  became  what  Lord  Pem- 
broke called  a  "  bow-wow."     The  late  Mr.  Fuseli  told  us  the 


CHAP.  XIV.]  A  WALK  FROM  DULWICH  TO  BROCKHAM  241 

same  thing  of  Johnson's  voice  ;  we  mean,  that  it  was  "  high/' 
in  contradistinction  to  a  bass  voice).  To  proceed  with  our  vil- 
lage  historian.  Our  informant  recurred  several  times  to  the 
childish  manners  of  Joi)nson,  saying  that  he  often  appeared 
"quite  simple," — "just  like  a  child," — "almost  foolish,  like." 
When  he  walked,  he  always  seemed  in  a  hurry.  His  walk  was 
"between  a  run  and 'a  shuffle."  Master  Whatman  was  here 
painting  a  good  portrait.  I  have  often  suspected  that  the  best 
likeness  of  Johnson  was  a  whole-length  engraving  of  him,  walk- 
ing in  Scotland,  with  that  joke  of  his  underneath,  about  the 
stick  that  he  lost  in  the  isle  of  Mull.  Boswell  told  him  the 
stick  would  be»returned.  "  No,  sir,"  replied  he  ;  "  consider  the 
value  of  such  a  piece  of  timber  here."  The  manner  of  his  walk 
in  the  picture  is  precisely  that  described  by  the  villager.  What- 
man concluded,  by  giving  his  opinion  of  Mrs.  Thrale,  which  he 
did  in  exactly  the  following  words  : — "  She  gathered  a  good  deal 
of  knowledge  from  him,  but  does  not  seem  to  have  turned  it  to 
much  account."  Wherever  you  now  go  about  the  country,  you 
recognize  the  effects  of  that  "  Twopenny  Trash,"  which  the  il- 
liberal affect  to  hold  in  such  contempt,  and  are  really  so  afraid 
of.  They  have  reason ;  for  people  now  canvass  their  preten- 
sions in  good  set  terms,  who  would  have  said  nothing  but  "  Anan  !" 
to  a  question  thirty  years  back.  Not  that  Mr.  Whatman  dis- 
cussed politics  with  us.  Let  no  magnanimous  Quarterly  Re- 
viewer  try  to  get  him  turned  out  of  a  place  on  that  score.  We 
are  speaking  of  the  peasantry  at  large,  and  then,  not  merely  of 
politics,  but  of  questions  of  all  sorts  interesting  to  humanity ; 
which  the  very  clowns  now  discuss  by  the  road-side,  to  an  ex- 
tent at  which  their  former  leaders  would  not  dare  to  discuss 
them.  This  is  one  reason,  among  others,  why  knowledge  must 
go  on  victoriously.  A  real  zeal  for  the  truth  can  discuss  any. 
thing  ;  slavery  can  only  go  the  length  of  its  chain. 

In  quitting  Streatham,  we  met  a  lady  on  horseback,  accompa 
nied  by  three  curs  and  a  footman,  which  a  milkman  facetiously 
termed  a  footman,  and  "  three  outriders."  Entering  Mitcham  by 
the  green  where  they  play  at  cricket,  we  noticed  a  pretty,  mode- 
rate-sized house,  with  the  largest  geraniums  growmg  on  each  side 
the  door  that  we  ever  beheld  in  that  situation.   Mitcham  ii  minded 


242  THE  COMPANION.  [chap,  xir 

me  of  its  neighbor,  Merton  and  of  the  days  of  my  childhood  ; 
but  we  could  not  go  out  of  our  way  to  see  it.  There  was  the 
little  river  Wandle,  however,  turning  a  mill,  and  flowing  between 
flowery  meadows.  The  mill  was  that  of  a  copper  manufactory, 
at  which  the  people  work  night  as  well  as  day,  one  half  taking 
the  duties  alternately.  The  reason  given  for  this  is,  that  by 
night,  the  river  not  being  interrupted  by  "other  demands  upon  it, 
works  to  better  advantage.  The  epithet  of  "  flowery  "  applied 
to  the  district,  is  no  poetical  licence.  In  the  fields  about  Mitcham 
they  cultivate  herbs  for  the  apothecaries ;  so  that  in  the  height 
of  the  season,  you  walk  as  in  the  Elysian  fields, 

"  In  yellow  meads  of  asphodel, 
And  amaranthine  bowers." 

Apothecaries'  Hall,  I  understand,  is  entirely  supplied  with  this 
poetical  part  of  medicine  from  some  acres  of  ground  belonging 
to  Major  Moor.  A  beautiful  bed  of  poppies,  as  we  entered  Mor- 
den,  glowed  in  the  setting  sun,  like  the  dreams  of  Titian.  It 
looked  like  a  bed  for  Proserpina — a  glow  of  melancholy  beauty, 
containing  a  joy  perhaps  beyond  joy.  Poppies,  with  their  dark 
ruby  cups  and  crowned  heads,  the  more  than  wine  color  of  their 
sleepy  silk,  and  the  funeral  look  of  their  anthers,  seem  to  have 
a  meaning  about  them  beyond  other  flowers.  They  look  as  if 
they  held  a  mystery  at  their  hearts,  like  sleeping  kings  of  Lethe. 
The  church  of  Mitcham  has  been  rebuilt,  if  I  recollect  right- 
ly, but  in  the  proper  old  style.  Morden  has  a  good  old  church, 
which  tempted  us  to  look  into  the  church-yard  ;  but  a  rich  man 
who  lives  near  it,  and  who  did  not  choose  his  house  to  be  ap- 
proached on  that  side,  had  locked  up  the  gate,  so  that  there  was 
no  path  through  it,  except  on  Sundays.  Can  this  be  a  lawful 
exercise  of  power  ?  If  people  have  a  right  to  call  any  path  their 
own,  I  should  think  it  must  be  that  which  leads  to  the  graves  of 
their  fathers  and  mothers  ;  and  next  to  their  right,  such  a  path 
is  the  right  of  the  traveller.  The  traveller  may  be  in  some  mea- 
sure regarded  as  a  representative  of  wandering  humanity.  He 
claims  relationship  with  all  whom  he  finds  attached  to  a  place  in 
idea.     He  and  the  dead  are  at  once  in  a  place,  and  apart  from 


CHAP.  XIV.]  A  WALK  FROM  DULWICH  TO        OCKHAM.  243 

it.  Setting  aside  this  remoter  sentiment,  it  is  surely  an  incon- 
siderate thing  in  any  man  to  shut  up  a  church-yard  from  the  vil- 
lagers ;  and  should  these  pages  meet  the  eye  of  the  person  in 
question,  he  is  recommended  to  think  better  of  it.  Possibly  I 
may  not  know  the  whole  of  the  case,  and  on  that  account,  though 
not  that  only,  I  mention  no  names  ;  for  the  inhabitant  with  wh  ^m 
[  talked  on  the  subject,  and  who  regarded  it  in  the  same  light, 
added,  with  a  candor  becoming  his  objections,  that  "  the  gentle- 
man was  a  very  good-natured  gentleman,  too,  and  kind  to  the 
poor."  How  his  act  of  power  squares  with  his  kindness,  I  do 
not  know.  Very  ejood-natured  people  are  sometimes  very  fond  of 
having  their  own  way  ;  but  this  is  a  mode  of  indulging  it,  which 
a  truly  generous  person,  I  should  think,  will,  on  reflection,  be 
glad  to  give  up.  Such  a  man,  I  am  sure,  can  afford  to  concede 
a  point,  where  others,  who  do  not  deserve  the  character,  will  try 
hard  to  retain  every  little  proof  of  their  importance. 

On  the  steps  of  the  George  Jnn,  at  Morden,  the  rustic  inn  of  a 
hamlet,  stood  a  personage  much  grimmer  than  the  White  Lion  of 
Streatham  ;  looking,  in  fact,  with  his  fiery  eyes,  his  beak,  and 
his  old  mouth  and  chin,  very  like  the  cock,  or  "  grim  leoun,"  of 
Chaucer.  He  was  tall  and  thin,  with  a  flapped  hat  over  his 
eyes,  and  appeared  as  sulky  and  dissatisfied  as  if  he  had  quar- 
relled with  the  whole  world,  the  exciseman  in  particular.  We 
asked  him  if  he  could  let  us  have  some  tea.  He  said,  "  Yes,  he 
believed  so  ;"  and  pointed  with  an  indiflerent,  or  rather  hostile 
air,  to  a  room  at  the  side,  which  we  entered.  A  buxom  good-na- 
tured girl,  with  a  squint,  that  was  bewitching  after  the  moral  de- 
formity  of  our  friend's  visage,  served  us  up  tea  ;  and  "  tea,  sir," 
as  Johnson  might  have  said,  "  inspires  placidity."  The  room  was 
adorned  with  some  engravings  after  Smirke,  the  subjects  out  of 
Shakspcare,  which  never  look  so  well,  I  think,  as  when  thus  en- 
countered on  a  journey.  Shakspeare  is  in  the  highway  of  life, 
with  exquisite  side-touches  of  the  remoteness  of  the  poet ;  and 
nobody  links  all  kindly  together  as  he  does. 

We  afterwards  found  in  conversing  with  the  villager  above- 
n)entioned,  that  our  host  of  the  George  had  got  rich,  and  was  pre- 
paring to  quit  for  a  new  house  he  had  built,  in  which  he  meant 
to  turn  gentleman  farmer.     Habit  made  him  dislike  to  go  ;   prids 


244  THE  COMPANION  [chap,  xiv 

and  his  wife  (who  vowed  she  would  go  whether  he  did  or  not) 
rendered  him  unable  to  stay ;  and  so  between  his  grudging  the 
new-comer  and  the  old  rib,  he  was  in  as  pretty  a  state  of  irrita- 
bility as  any  successful  non-succeeder  need  be.  People  had  been 
galling  him  all  day,  I  suppose,  with  showing  how  many  pots  of 
ale  would  be  drunk  under  the  new  tenant ;  and  our  arrival 
crowned  the  measure  of  his  receipts  and  his  wretchedness,  by 
intimating  that  "  gentlefolks  "  intended  to  come  to  tea.  —Adieu, 
till  next  week. 

We  left  Morden  after  tea,  and  proceeded  on  our  road  for  Ep- 
som. The  landscape  continued  fiat  but  luxuriant.  You  are  sure, 
I  believe,  of  trees  in  Surrey,  except  on  the  downs  ;  and  they  are 
surrounded  with  wood,  and  often  have  beautiful  clumps  of  it. 
The  sun  began  to  set  a  little  after  we  had  got  beyond  the  Post- 
house  ;  and  was  the  largest  I  remember  to  have  seen.  It  looked 
through  hedges  of  elms  and  wild  roses  ;  the  mowers  were  going 
home  ;  and  by  degrees  the  landscape  was  bathed  in  a  balmy  twi- 
light. Patient  and  placid  thought  succeeded.  It  was  an  hour, 
and  a  scene,  in  which  one  would  suppose  that  the  weariest-laden 
pilgrim  must  feel  his  burden  easier. 

About  a  mile  from  Ewell  a  post-chaise  overtook  and  passed  us, 
the  driver  of  which  was  seated,  and  had  taken  up  an  eleemosy- 
nary girl  to  sit  with  him.  Postilions  run  along  a  road,  conscious 
of  a  pretty  power  in  that  way,  and  able  to  select  some  fair  one, 
to  whom  they  gallantly  make  a  present  of  a  ride.  Not  having  a 
fare  of  one  sort,  they  make  it  up  to  themselves  by  taking  another. 
You  may  be  pretty  sure  on  these  occasions,  that  there  is  nobody 
"  hid  in  their  vacant  interlunar  "  chaise.  So  taking  pity  on  my 
companions  (for  after  I  am  once  tired,  I  ^eem  as  if  I  could  go  on, 
tired  for  ever),  I  started  and  ran  after  the  charioteer.  Some 
good-natured  peasants  (they  all  appear  such  in  this  county)  aided 
the  shouts  which  I  sent  after  him.  He  stopped  ;  and  the  gallan- 
try on  both  sides  was  rewarded  by  the  addition  of  two  females  to 
his  vehicle.  We  were  soon  through  Ewell,  a  pretty  neat-looking 
place  with  a  proper  old  church,  and  a  handsome  house  opposite, 
new  but  in  the  old  style.  The  church  has  trees  by  it,  and  there 
was  a  moon  over  them. — At  Ewell  was  born  the  facetious  Bishop 
Corbet,  who  when  a  bald  man  was  brought  before  him  to  be  cod- 


CHAP.  XIV.]  A  WALK  FROM  DULWICH  TO  BROCKHAM.  243 

firmed,  said  to  his  assistant,  "  Some  dust,  Lushington  :" — (to  keep 
his  hand  from  slipping.) 

The  night  air  struck  cold  on  passing  Ewell  ;  and  for  the  first 
time  there  was  an  appearance  of  a  bleak  and  barren  country  to 
the  left.  This  was  Epsom  Downs.  They  are  the  same  as  the 
Banstead  and  Leat\ierhead  downs,  the  name  varying  with  the 
neighborhood.    You  remember  Banstead  mutton  ? 

"  To  Hounslow-heath  I  point,  and  Banstead  down  ; 
Thence  comes  your  mutton,  and  these  chicks  my  own." 

Pope  seems  to  have  lifted  up  his  delicate  nose  at  Twickenham, 
and  scented  his  dinner  a  dozen  miles  off. 

At  Epsom  we  supped  and  slept;  and  finding  the  inn  comforta- 
ble, and  having  bome  work  to  do,  we  stopped  there  a  day  or  two. 
Do  you  not  like  those  solid,  wainscotted  rooms  in  old  houses,  with 
seats  in  the  windows,  and  no  pretension  but  to  comfort  ?  They 
please  me  exceedingly.  Their  merits  are  complete,  if  the  houses 
are  wide  and  low,  and  situate  in  a  spot  at  once  woody  and  dry. 
Wood  is  not  to  be  expected  in  a  high  street ;  but  the  house  (the 
King's  Head)  was  of  this  description  ;  and  Epsom  itself  is  in  a 
nest  of  trees.  Next  morning,  on  looking  out  of  window,  we  found 
ourselves  in  a  proper  country  town,  remarkably  neat,  the  houses 
not  old  enough  to  be  ruinous,  nor  yet  to  have  been  exchanged  for 
new  ones  of  a  London  character.  Opposite  us  was  the  watch- 
house  with  the  market-clock,  and  a  pond  which  is  said  to  contain 
gold  and  silver  fish.  How  those  delicate  little  creatures  came  to 
inhabit  a  pond  in  the  middle  of  a  town  I  cannot  say.  One  fancies 
they  must  have  been  put  in  by  the  fantastic  hand  of  some  fine 
lady  in  the  days  of  Charles  the  Second  ;  for  this  part  of  the  coun- 
try is  eminent  in  the  annals  of  gaiety.  Charles  used  to  come  to 
the  races  here  ;  the  palace  of  Nonesuch,  which  he  gave  to  Lady 
Castlemain,  is  a  few  miles  off;  and  here  he  visited  the  gentry  ui 
the  neighborhood.  At  Ashted  Park,  close  by,  and  still  in  posses- 
sion of  inheritors  of  the  name  of  Howard  by  marriage,  he  visit- 
ed Sir  Robert  Howard,  the  brother-in-law  of  Dryden,  who  pro- 
bably used  to  come  there  also.  They  preserved  there  till  not 
long  ago  the  table  at  which  the  king  dined. 

This  Ashted  is  a  lively  spot,-  -both  park  and  village.  The  vil 


246  THE  COMPANION.  [chap,  xiv 

lage,  or  rather  hamlet,  is  on  the  road  to  Leatherhead  ;  so  indeed 
is  the  park  ;  but  the  mansion  is  out  ol'  sight ;  and  near  the  man- 
sion, and  in  the  very  thick  of  the  park  and  the  trees,  with  the 
ueer  running  about  it,  is  the  village  church,  small,  old,  and  pic- 
turesque,— a  little  stone  tower  ;  and  the  churchyard,  of  propor- 
tionate dimensions,  is  beside  it.  When  I  first  saw  it,  looking  with 
its  pointed  windows  through  the  trees,  the  surprise  was  beautiful. 
The  inside  disappoints  you,  not  because  it  is  so  small,  but  because 
the  accommodations  and  the  look  of  them  are  so  homely.  The 
wood  of  the  pews  resembles  that  of  an  old  kitchen  dresser  in 
color  J  the  lord  of  the  manor's  being  not  a  wJiit  better  than  the 
rest.  This  is  in  good  taste,  considering  the  rest ;  and  Col.  How. 
ard,  who  has  the  reputation  of  being  a  liberal  man,  probably 
keeps  the  church  just  as  he  found  it,  without  thinking  about  the 
matter.  At  any  rate,  he  does  not  exalt  himself,  in  a  Christian 
assembly,  at  the  expense  of  his  neighbors.  But  loving  old 
churches  as  I  do,  and  looking  forward  to  a  time  when  a  Christi- 
anity still  more  worthy  of  the  name  shall  be  preached  in  them, 
I  could  not  help  wishing  that  the  inside  were  more  worthy  of  the 
out-  A  coat  of  shining  walnut,  a  painting  at  one  end,  and  a  small 
organ  with  its  dark  wood  and  its  golden-looking  pipes  at  the  other, 
would  make,  at  no  great  expense  to  a  wealthy  man,  a  jewel  of 
an  interior,  worthy  of  the  lovely  spot  in  which  the  church  is  sit- 
uate. One  cannot  help  desiring  something  of  this  kind  the  more, 
on  account  of  what  has  been  done  for  other  village-churches  in 
the  neighborhood,  which  I  shall  presently  notice.  Epsom  church, 
I  believe,  is  among  them  ;  the  outside  unquestionably  (I  have  not 
seen  the  interior)  ;  and  a  spire  has  been  added,  which  makes  a 
pretty  addition  to  the  scenery.  The  only  ornaments  of  Ashted 
church,  besides  two  or  three  monuments  of  the  Howards,  are  the 
family  'scutcheon,  and  -that  of  his  Sacred  Majesty  Charles  the 
Second  ;  which  I  suppose  was  put  up  at  the  time  of  his  restora- 
tion or  his  visit,  and  nas  remained  ever  since,  the  lion  still  look- 
ing lively  and  threatening.  One  imagines  the  court  coming  to 
church,  and  the  whole  place  filled  with  perukes  and  courtiers, 
with  love-locks  and  rustling,  silks.  Sir  Robert  is  in  a  state  of  ex- 
altation. Dryden  stands  near  him,  observant.  Charles  composes 
his  face  to  the  sermon,  upon  which  Buckingham  and  Sedley  are 


CHAP.  XIV.]  A  WALK  FROM  DULWICH  TO  BROCKHAM  24T 

cracking  almost  unbearable  jokes  behind  their  gloves  ;  and  the 
poor  village  maidens,  gaping  alternately  at  his  Majesty's  sacred 
visage  and  the  profane  beauty  of  the  Countess  of  Castlemain, 
and  then  losing  their  eyes  among  "  a  power  "  of  cavaliers,  "the 
handsomest  men  as  ever  was,"  are  in  a  way  to  bring  the  hearts, 
thumping  in  their  boddices,  to  a  fine  market.  I  wonder  how 
many  descendants  there  are  of  earls  and  marquises  living  this 
minute  at  Epsom  !  How  much  noble  blood  ignobly  occupied  with 
dairies  and  ploughs,  and  looking  gules  in  the  cheeks  of  bump- 
kins. 

Ashted  Park  has  some  fine  walnut-trees  (Surrey  is  the  great 
garden  of  walnuts)  and  one  of  the  noblest  limes  I  ever  saw.  The 
park  is  well  kept,  has  a  pretty  lodge  and  game. keeper's  house, 
with  roses  at  the  doors;  and  a  farm  cottage  where  the  "gentle 
folks  "  may  play  at  rustics.  A  lady  of  quality,  in  a  boddice, 
gives  one  somehow  a  pretty  notion  ;  especially  if  she  has  a  heart 
high  enough  really  to  sympathize  with  humility.  A  late  Earl 
of  Exeter  lived  unknown  for  some  time  in  a  village,  under  the 
name  of  Jones  (was  not  that  a  good  name  to  select?)  and  married 
a  country  girl,  whom  he  took  to  Burleigh  House,  and  then  for  the 
first  time  told  her  that  she  was  the  mistress  of  it  and  a  Countess  ! 
This  is  a  romance  of  real  life  which  has  been  deservedly  envied. 
If  I,  instead  of  being  a  shattered  student,  an  old  intellectual 
soldier,  "  not  worth  a  lady's  eye,"  and  forced  to  compose  his 
frame  to  abide  the  biddings  of  his  resolution,  were  a  young  fellow 
in  the  bloom  of  life,  and  equally  clever  and  penniless,  I  cannot 
imagine  a  fortune  of  which  I  should  be  prouder,  and  which  would 
give  me  right  to  take  a  manlier  aspect  in  the  eyes  of  love,  than 
to  owe  everything  I  had  in  the  world,  down  to  my  very  shoe- 
strings, to  a  woman  who  should  have  played  over  the  same  story 
with  me,  the  sexes  being  reversed  ;  who  should  say,  "  You  took 
me  for  a  cottager,  and  I  am  a  Countess  ;  and  this  is  the  only 
deception  you  will  ever  have  to  forgive  me."  What  a  pleasure 
to  strive  after  daily  excellence,  in  order  to  show  one's  g.'atitude 
to  such  a  woman  ;  to  fight  for  her;  to  suffer  for  her;  to  wear 
her  name  like  a  priceless  jewel  ;  to  hold  her  hand  in  long  sick- 
ness,  and  look  in  her  face  when  it  had  lost  its  beauty  ;  to  say, 
questioning,  "  You  know  how  1  love  you  ?"  and  for  her  to  answer 

42 


2 II  THE  COMPANION.  [chap   xrv 

V.  it!)  such  a  face  of  truth,  that  nothing  but  exceeding  health 
could  hinder  one  from  being  faint  with  adoring  her,  Alas  !  why 
are  not  all  hearts  that  are  capable  of  love,  rich  in  the  knowledge 
how  to  show  it ;  which  would  supersede  the  necessity  of  other 
riches?  Or,  indeed,  are  not  all  hearts  which  are  truly  so  ca- 
pable, gifted  with  the  riches  by  the  capacity  ? 

Forgive  me  this  dream  under  the  walnut-trees  of  Ashted 
l^ark  ;  and  let  us  return  to  the  colder  loves  of  the  age  of  Charles 
the  Second.  I  thought  to  give  you  a  picture  of  Epsom,  by  turning 
to  Shadwell's  comedy  of  Epsom  Wells  ;  but  it  contains  nothing 
of  any  sort  except  a  sketch  of  a  wittol  or  two,  though  Sedley  is 
said  to  have  helped  him  in  it,  and  though  (probably  on  that 
account)  it  was  very  successful. 

Pepys,  however,  will  supply  us  with  a  scene  or  two  : — 

"  26th,  Lord's-day. — Up  and  to  the  Wells,  where  a  great  store 
of  citizens,  which  was  the  greatest  part  of  the  company,  though 
there  were  some  others  of  better  quality.  Thence  I  walked  to 
Mr.  Minnes's  house,  and  thence  to  Durdan's,  and  walked  within 
the  court-yard,  &c.,  to  the  bowling-green,  where  I  have  seen  so 
much  mirth  in  my  time ;  but  now  no  family  in  it  (my  Lord 
Barkeley,  whose  it  is,  being  with  his  family  at  London).  Then 
rode  through  Epsom,  the  whole  town  over,  seeing  the  various 
companies  that  were  there  walking ;  which  is  very  pleasant, 
seeing  how  they  are  without  knowing  what  to  do,  but  only  in  the 
morning  to  drink  waters.  But  Lard  !  to  see  how  many  I  met 
there  of  citizens,  that  I  could  not  have  thought  to  have  seen 
there  ;  that  they  had  ever  had  it  in  their  heads  or  purses  to  go 
down  there.  We  went  through  Nonesuch  Park  to  the  house, 
and  there  viewed  as  much  as  we  eould  of  the  outside,  and  looked 
through  the  great  gates,  and  found  a  noble  court :  and  altogether 
believe  it  to  have  been  a  very  noble  house,  and  a  delicate  parke 
about  it,  where  just  now  there  was  a  doe  killed  for  the  king,  to 
carry  up  to  court." — Vol.  i.,  p.  241. 

If  the  sign  of  the  King's  Head  at  Epsom  is  still  where  it  used 
to  be,  it  appears,  from  another  passage,  that  we  had  merry  ghosts 
next  door  to  us. 

"  14th. — To  Epsom,  by  eight  o'clock  to  the  Well,  where  much 
company.     And  to  he  town,  to  King's  Head  :  and  hear  that  my 


CHAP.  XIV.]  A  WALK  FROM  DULWICH  TO  BROCKHAM.  249 

Lord  Buckhurst  and  Nelly  are  lodged  at  the  next  house,  and  Sir 
Charles  Sedley  with  them  ;  and  keep  a  merry  house.  Poor  girl ! 
I  pity  her;  but  more  the  loss  of  her  at  the  king's  house.  Here 
Tom  Wilson  came  to  me,  and  sat  and  talked  an  hour ;  and  I 
perceive  he  hath  been  much  acquainted  with  Dr.  Fuller  (Tom), 
and  Dr.  Pierson,  and  several  of  the  great  cavalier  persons  during 
the  late  troubles  ;  and  I  was  glad  to  hear  him  talk  of  them, 
which  he  did  very  ingenuously,  and  very  much  of  Dr.  Fuller's 
art  of  memory,  which  he  did  tell  me  several  instances  of.  By 
and  bye  he  parted,  and  I  talked  with  two  women  that  farmed  the 
well  at  J£12  per  annum,  of  the  lord  of  the  manor.  Mr.  Evelyn, 
with  his  lady,  and  also  my  Lord  George  Barkeley's  lady,  and 
their  fine  daughter,  that  the  King  of  France  liked  so  well,  and 
did  dance  so  rich  in  jewels  b&fore  the  King,  at  the  ball  I  was  at, 
at  our  court  last  winter,  and  also  their  son,  a  knight  of  the  Bath, 
were  at  church  this  morning.  I  walked  upon  the  Downs,  where 
a  flock  of  sheep  was  ;  the  most  pleasant  and  innocent  sight  that 
ever  I  saw  in  my  life.  We  found  a  shepherd,  and  his  little  boy, 
reading,  free  from  any  houses  or  sight  of  people,  the  Bible  to 
him  ;  and  we  took  notice  of  his  knit  woollen  stockings,  of  two 
colors  mixed." — Vol.  ii.,  p.  92. 

This  place  was  still  in  high  condition  at  the  beginning  of  the 
next  century,  as  appears  from  Toland's  account  of  it,  quoted  in 
the  History  of  Epsom,  hy  an  Inhabitant.  After  a  "  flowery,"  as 
the  writer  justly  calls  it,  but  perhaps  not  undeserved  account  of 
the  pleasures  of  the  place,  outside  as  well  as  in,  he  says — 

"  The  two  rival  bowling-greens  are  not  to  be  forgotten,  on 
which  all  the  company,  after  diverting  themselves,  in  the  morning, 
according  to  their  fancies,  make  a  gallant  appearance  every 
evening,  especially  on  the  Saturday  and  Monday,  Here  are  also 
raffling-tables,  with  music  playing  most  of  the  day  ;  and  the 
nights  are  generally  crowned  with  dancing.  All  new-comers 
are  awakened  out  of  their  sleep  the  first  morning,  by  the  same 
music,  which  goes  to  welcome  them  to  Epsom. 

"You  would  think  yourself  in  some  enchanted  camp,  to  see 
the  peasants  ride  to  every  house,  with  chx)icest  fruits,  herbs,  and 
flowers  .  with  all  sorts  of  tame  and  wild  fowl ;  the  rarest  fish  and 


250  THE  C  DMPAxNION.  [chap,  xiy 

venison ;  and  with  every  kind  of  butcher's  meat,  among  whion 
the  Banstead  Down  mutton  is  the  most  relishing  dainty. 

"  Thus  to  see  the  fresh  and  artless  damsels  of  the  plain,  either 
accompanied  by  their  amorous  swains  or  aged  parents,  striking 
their  bargains  with  the  nice  court  and  city  ladies,  who,  like 
queens  in  a  tragedy,  display  all  their  finery  on  benches  before 
their  doors  (where  they  hourly  censure  and  are  censured) ;  and 
to  observe  how  the  handsomest  of  each  degree  equally  admire, 
envy,  and  cozen  one  another,  is  to  me  one  of  the  chief  amuse- 
ments of  the  place. 

"  The  ladies  who  are  too  lazy  or  stately,  but  especially  those 
who  sit  up  late  at  cards,  have  their  provisions  brought  to  their 
bed-side,  where  they  conclude  the  bargain  with  the  higler  ;  and 
then  (perhaps  after  a  dish  of  chocolate)  take  another  nap  until 
what  they  have  thus  purchased  is  prepared  for  dinner. 

"  Within  a  mile  and  a  half  of  Epsom,  is  the  place,  and  only 
the  place,  where  the  splendid  mansion  of  Nonesuch  lately  stood. 
A  great  part  of  it,  however,  stood  in  my  own  time,  and  I  have 
spoken  with  those  who  saw  it  entire. 

"  But  not  to'  quit  our  Downs  for  any  court,  the  great  number 
of  gentlemen  and  ladies  that  take  the  air  every  morning  and 
evening  on  horse-back,  and  that  range,  either  singly  or  in  sepa- 
rate companies,  over  every  hill  and  dale,  is  a  most  entertainhig 
object. 

"But  whether  you  gently  wander  over  my  favorite  meadows, 
planted  on  all  sides  quite  to  Woodcote  Seat  (in  whose  long  grove 
I  oftenest  converse  with  myself) ;  or  walk  further  on  to  Ashted 
house  and  park  ;  or  ride  still  farther  to  Box-hill,  that  enchanting 
temple  of  Nature :  or  whether  you  lose  yourself  in  the  aged 
yew-groves  of  Mickleham,  or  try  your  patience  in  angling  for 
trout  about  Leatherhead  ;  whether  you  go  to  some  cricket-match, 
and  other  sports  of  contending  villagers,  or  choose  to  breathe  your 
horse  at  a  race,  and  to  follow  a  pack  of  hounds  at  the  proper 
season:  whether,  I  say,  you  delight  in  anyone  or  every  of  these, 
Epsom  is  the  place  you  must  like  before  all  others." 

Congreve  has  a  letter  addressed  "to  Mrs.  Hunt  at  Epsom." 
This  was  Arabella  Hunt,  the  lady  to  whom  he  addressed  an  ode 
on  her  singing,  and  with  whom  he  appears  to  have  been  in  love. 


CHAP.  XIV.]  A  WALK  FROM  DULWICH  TO  EROCKHAM.  :r.l 

Epsom  has  still  its  races  ;  but  the  Wells  (not  far  from  Ashted 
Park),  though  retaining  the  r  property,  and  giving  a  name  to  a 
medicine,  have  long  been  out  of  fashion.  Individuals,  however, 
I  believe,  still  resort  to  them.  Their  site  is  occupied  by  a  farm- 
house, in  which  lodgings  are  to  be  had.  Close  to  Ashted  Park 
is  that  of  Lord  Woodcote,  formerly  the  residence  of  the  notorious 
Lord  Baltimore,  the  last  man  of  quality  in  England  who  had  a 
taste  for  abduction.  Of  late,  our  aspirants  after  figure  and 
fortune  seem  to  have  been  ambitious  of  restoring  the  practice 
from  Ireland.  It  is  their  mode  of  conducting  the  business  of 
life.     Abduction,  they  think,  "  must  be  attended  to." 

From  Woodcote  Green,  a  pretty  sequestered  spot,  between  this 
park  and  the  town,  rooks  are  said  to  have  been  first  taken  to  the 
Temple 'Gardens,  by  Sir  William  Northey,  secretary  to  Queen 
Anne.  How  heightened  is  the  pleasure  given  you  by  the  con- 
templation of  a  beautiful  spot,  when  you  think  it  has  been  the 
means  of  conferring  good  elsewhere  !  I  would  rather  live  near 
a  rookery,  which  had  sent  out  a  dozen  colonies,  than  have  the 
solitary  idea  of 'them  complete.  In  the  solitude  you  crave  after 
human  good  ;  and  here  a  piece  of  it,  however  cheap  in  the  eyes 
of  the  scornful,  has  been  conferred  ;  for  Sir  William's  colony 
flourish,  it  seems,  in  the  smoke  of  London.  Rooks  always  ap- 
peared to  me  the  clergymen  among  birds ;  grave,  black-coated, 
sententious ;  with  an  eye  to  a  snug  sylvan  abode,  and  plenty  of 
tithes.  Their  clerkly  character  is  now  mixed  up  in  my  ima- 
gination with  something  of  the  lawyer.  They  and  the  lawyer's 
"  studious  bowers,"  as  Spenser  calls  the  Temple,  appear  to  suit 
one  another.  Did  you  ever  notice,  by  the  way,  what  a  soft  and 
pleasant  sound  there  is  in  the  voices  of  the  young  rooks — a  sort 
of  kindly  chuckle,  like  that  of  an  infant  being  fed  ? 

At  Woodcote  Green  is  Durdans,  the  seat  mentioned  in  Pepys 
as  belonging  to  Lord  Berkeley,  now  the  residence  of  Sir  Gilbert 
Heathcote,  and  said  to  have  been  built  (with  several  other  man- 
sions) of  the  materials  of  Nonesuch,  when  that  palace  was  pulled 
down.  It  is  one  of  those  solid  country  houses,  wider  than  tall, 
and  of  shining  brick-work,  that  retain  at  once  a  look  of  age  and 
newness  ;  promise  well  for  domestic  comfort ;  and  suit  a  good 
substantial  garden.     In  coming  upon  it  suddenly,   and  looking 

42* 


252  THE  COMPANION.  [chai   xiv 

at  it  through  the  great  iron  gates  and  across  a  round  plat  of 
grass  and  flowers,  it  seems  a  personification  of  the  solid  country 
squire  himself,  not  without  elegance,  sitting  under  his  trees. 
When  I  looked  at  it,  and  thought  of  the  time  of  Charles  II.,  I 
could  not  help  fancying  that  it  must  have  belonged  to  the  "  Dame 
Burden  "  of  the  old  glee,  who  had  such  a  loving  household. 

There  is  a  beautiful  walk  from  Woodcote  Green  to  Ashted, 
through  the  park,  and  then  (crossing  the  road)  through  the  fields 
and  woody  lanes  to  Leatherhead  ;  but  in  going,  we  went  by  the 
road.  As  we  were  leaving  Epsom,  a  girl  was  calling  the  bees 
to  swarm,  with  a  brass  pan.  Larks  accompanied  us  all  the 
way.  The  fields  were  full  of  clover ;  there  was  an  air  on  our 
faces,  the  day  being  at  once  fine  and  gently  clouded  ;  and  in 
passing  through- a  lovely  country,  we  were  conscious  of  going  to 
a  lovelier. 

At  Leatherhead  begin  the  first  local  evidences  of  hill  and  val- 
ley, with  which  the  country  is  now  enriched.  The  modern  way 
of  spelling  the  name  of  this  town  renders  it  a  misnomer  and  a 
dishonor,  and  has  been  justly  resented  by  the  antiquarian  taste 
of  Mr.  Dallaway  the  vicar,  who  makes  it  a  point,  they  say,  to 
restore  the  old  spelling,  Lethered.  I  believe  he  supposed  h  to 
come  anagramatically  from  the  Saxon  name  Ethelred  ;  a  thing 
not  at  all  improbable,  transformations  of  that  sort  having 
been  common  in  old  times.  (See  the  annotations  on  Chaucer 
and  Redi.)  An  Ethelred  perhaps  had  a  seat  at  this  place. 
Epsom,  formerly  written  Ebsham  and  Ebbensham  (Fuller  so 
writes  it),  is  said  to  have  been  named  from  Ebba,  a  Saxon  prin- 
cess, who  had  a  palace  there.  Ebba,  I  suppose,  is  the  same  as 
Emma,  cum  gratia  Mathews. 

Leatherhead,  like  all  the  towns  that  let  lodgings  during  the 
races,  is  kept  very  neat  and  nice  ;  and  though  not  quite  so 
woody  as  Epsom,  is  in  a  beautiful  country,  and  has  to  boast  of 
the  river  Mole.  It  has  also  a  more  venerable  church.  Mr. 
Dallaway,  like  a  proper  antiquary,  has  refreshed  the  interior, 
without  spoiling  it.  Over  the  main  pew  is  preserved,  together 
with  his  helmet,  an  inscription  in  old  English  letters,  to  the  memory 
of"  friendly  Robert  Gardner,"  chief  Sergeant  of  the  "  Seller," 
in  the  year  1571.     This  was  in  the  time  of  Elizabeth.     A  jovial 


CHAP.  XIV.]  A  WALK  FROM  DULWICH  TO  BROCKHAM.  253 

successor  of  his  is  also  recor&ea,  to  wit,  "  Richard  Dalton,  Esq., 
Serjeant  of  the  Wine  Cellar  to  King  Charles  II."     But  it  is  on 
the  memory  of  the  other  sex  that  Leatherhead  church  ought  to 
pride  itself.     Here  are  buried  three  sister  Beauclercs,  daughters 
of  Lord  Henry  Beauclerc,  who  appear  to  have  been  three  quiet, 
benevolent  old  maids,  who  followed  one  another  quietly  to  the 
grave,  and  had  lived,  doubtless,  the  admiration   rather  than   the 
envy  of  the   village  damsels.      Here  also  lies  Miss  Cholmon- 
deley,  another  old  maid,  but  merry  withal,  and  the  delight  of  all 
that  knew  her,  who,  by  one  of  those  frightful  accidents  that  sud- 
denly knock  people's  souls  out,  and  seem  more  frightful  when 
they  cut  short  the  career  of  the  good-natured,  was  killed  on  the 
spot,  at  the  entrance  of  this  village,  by  the  overturning  of  the 
Princess  Charlotte's  coach,  whom  she  was  accompanying  on  a 
visit  to  Norbury  Park.     A  most  affectionate  epitaph,  honorable 
to  all  parties,  and  recording  her  special  attachment  to  her  mar- 
ried sister,  is  inscribed  to  her  memory  by  her  brother-in-law, 
Sir  William  Bellingham,  I  think.     But  above  all,  "  Here  lies 
all  that  is  mortal  "  (to  use  the  words  of  the  tombstone)  :'  of  Mrs. 
Elizabeth  Rolfe,"  of  Dover,  in  Kent,  who  departed  this  life  in 
the  sixty-seventh  year  of  her  age,  and  was  "  interred  by  her  own 
desire   at  the   side  of  her   beloved   Cousin,   Benefactress,   and 
Friend,  Lady  Catharine  Thompson,  with  whom  she  buried  all 
worldly  happiness.     This  temporary  separation,"  continues  the 
epitaph,  "  no  engagements,  no  pursuits,  could  render  less  bitter 
to  the  disconsolate   Mrs.  Rolfe,  who  from  the  hour  she  lost  her 
other  self  knew  no  pleasure  but  in  the  hopes  she  cherished  (on 
which  point  her  eyes  were  ever  fixed)  of  joining  her  friend  in 
the  region  of  unfading  Felicity.     Blessed  with  the  Power  and 
Will  to  succor  the  distressed,  she  exercised  both  ;  and  in  these 
exercises  only  found  a  Ray  of  Happiness.     Let  the   Ridiculers 
of  Female  Friendship  read  this  honest  Inscription,  which  disdains 
to  flatter." — A  record  in  another  part  informs  us,  that  Mrs.  Rolfe 
gave  the  parish  the  interest  of  £400  annually  in  memory  of  the 
above,  so  long  as  the  parish  preserves  the  marble  that  announces 
the  gift,  and  the  stone  that  covers  her  grave.     Talking  with  the 
parish-clerk,  who  was  otherwise  a  right  and  seemly  parish-clerk, 
elderly  and  withered,  with  a  proper  brown  wig,  he  affected,  like 


254  THE  COMPANION.  [chap,  xit 

a  man  of  this  world,  to  speak  in  disparagement  of  the  phrase 
"  her  other  self,"  which  somebody  had  taught  him  to  consider 
romantic,  and  an  exaggeration.  This  was  being  a  little  too 
much  of  "  the  earth,  earthy."  The  famous  parish-clerk  of  St. 
Andrews,  one  of  the  great  professors  of  humanity  in  the  times  of 
the  Deckars  and  Shakspeares,  would  have  talked  in  a  different 
strain.  There  is  some  more  of  the  epitaph,  recommencing  in  a 
style  somewhat  "  to  seek,"  and  after  the  meditative  Burleigh 
fashion,  in  the  Critic  ;  but  this  does  not  hinder  the  rest  from 
being  true,  or  Mrs.  Rolfe  and  my  lady  Thompson  from  being  two 
genuine  human  beings,  and  among  the  salt  of  the  earth.  There 
is  more  friendship  and  virtue  in  the  world  than  the  world  has 
yet  got  wisdom  enough  to  know  and  be  proud  of;  and  few  things 
would  please  me  better  than  to  travel  all  over  England,  and 
fetch  out  the  records  of  it. 

I  must  not  omit  to  mention  that  Elinor  Rummyn,  illustrious  in 
the  tap-room  pages  of  "  Skelton,  Laureate,"  kept  a  house  in  this 
village  ;  and  that  Mr.  Dallaway  has  emblazoned  the  fact,  for 
the  benefit  of  antiquarian  travellers,  in  the  shape  of  her  portrait, 
with  an  inscription  upon  it.  The  house  is  the  Running  Horse, 
near  the  bridge. 

The  luxury  of  the  country  now  increases  at  every  step  towards 
Dorking,  which  is  five  miles  from  Leatherhead.  You  walk 
through  a  valley  with  hills  on  one  side  and  wood  all  about ;  and 
on  your  right  hand  is  the  Mole,  running  through  fields  and  flow- 
ery  hedges.  These  hills  are  the  turfy  downs  of  Norbury  Park, 
the  gate  of  which  you  soon  arrive  at.  It  is  modern,  but  in  good 
retrospective  taste,  and  stands  out  into  the  road  with  one  of  those 
round  overhanging  turrets,  which  seem  held  forth  by  the  old 
hand  of  hospitality.  A  little  beyond,  you  arrive  at  the  lovely 
village  of  Mickleham,  small,  sylvan,  and  embowered,  with  a 
\itt\e  fat  church  (for  the  epithet  comes  involuntarily  at  the  sight 
of  it),  as  short  and  plump  as  the  fattest  of  its  vicars  may  have 
been,  with  a  disproportionate  bit  of  a  spire  on  the  top,  as  if  he 
had  put  on  an  extinguisher  instead  of  a  hat.  The  inside  has 
been  renewed  in  the  proper  taste  as  though*  Mr.  Dallaway  had 
had  a  hand  in  it ;  and  there  is  an  organ,  which  is  more  than 
Leatherhead  can  boast.     The  organist  is  the  son  of  the  parish- 


CHAP,  siv.]  A  WALK  FROM  .DULWICH  TO  BROCKHAM.  255 

clerk  ;  and  when  I  asked  his  sister,  a  modest,  agreeable-look- 
ing girl,  who  showed  us  the  church,  whether  he  could  not  favor 
us  with  a  voluntary,  she  told  me  he  was  making  hay  !  What 
do  you  say  to  that  ?  I  think  this  is  a  piece  of  Germanism 
for  you.  Her  father  was  a  day-laborer,  like  the  son,  and  had 
become  organist  before  him,  out  of  a  natural  love  of  music.  I  had 
fetched  the  girl  from  her  tea.  A  decent-looking  young  man  was 
in  the  room  with  her  ;  the  door  was  open,  exhibiting  the  homely 
comforts  inside  ;  a  cat  slept  before  it,  on  the  cover  of  the  garden 
wall ;  and  there  was  plenty  of  herbs  and  flowers,  presenting 
altogether  the  appearance  of  a  cottage  nest.  I  will  be  bound 
that  their  musical  refinements  are  a  great  help  to  the  enjoyment 
of  all  this  ;  and  that  a  general  lift  in  their  tastes,  instead  of  dis- 
satisfying the  poor,  would  have  a  reverse  effect,  by  increasing  the 
sum  of  their  resources.  It  w.ould,  indeed,  not  help  to  blind  them 
to  whatever  they  might  have  reason  to  ask  or  to  complain  of. 
Why  should  it  ?  But  it  would  refine  them  there  also,  and  ena- 
ble them  to  obtain  it  more  happily,  through  the  means  of  the  dif- 
fusion of  knowledge  on  all  sides. 

The  mansion  of  Norbury  Park,  formerly  the  seat  of  Mr.  Locke, 
who  appears  to  have  had  a  deserved  reputation  for  taste  in  the 
fine  arts  (his  daughter  married  an  Angerstein),  is  situate  on  a 
noble  elevation  upon  the  right  of  the  village  of  Mickleham.  Be- 
tween the  grounds  and  the  road,  are  glorious  slopes  and  mea- 
dows, superabundant  in  wood,  and  pierced  by  the  river  Mole. 
In  coming  back  we  turned  up  a  path  into  them,  to  look  at  a 
farm  that  was  to  be  let.  It  belongs  to  a  gentleman,  celebrated 
in  the  neighborhood,  and  we  believe  elsewhere,  for  his  powers 
of"  conversation  ;"  but  this  we  did  not  know  at  the  time.  He 
was  absent,  and  had  left  his  farm  in  the  hands  of  his  steward,  to 
be  let  for  a  certain  time.  The  house  was  a  cottage,  and  fur- 
nished as  becomes  a  cottage  ;  but  one  room  we  thought  would 
make  a  delicious  study.  Probably  it  is  one  ;  for  there  were 
books  and  an  easy-chair  in  it.  The  window  looked  upon  a 
close  bit  of  lawn,  shut  in  with  trees  ;  and  round  the  walls  hung 
a  set  of  prints  from  Raphael.  This  looked  as  if  the  possessor 
had  something  to  say  for  himself. 

We  were  now  in  the  bosom  of  the  scenery  for  which  this  part 


256  THE  COMPANION.  [chap,  xiv 

of  the  country  is  celebrated.  Between  Mickleham  and  Dorking, 
on  the  left,  is  the  famous  Box  Hill,  so  called  from  the  trees  that 
grow  on  it.  Part  of  it  presents  great  bald  pieces  of  chalk  ;  but 
on  the  side  of  Mickleham  it  has  one  truly  noble  aspect,  a  "  ver- 
durous wall,"  which  looks  the  higher  for  its  being  precipitous, 
and  from  its  having  somebody's  house  at  the  foot  of  it — a  white 
little  mansion  in  a  world  of  green.  Otherwise,  the  size  of  this 
hill  disappointed  us.  The  river  Mole  runs  at  the  foot  of  it. 
This  river,  so  called  from  taking  part  of  its  course  under  ground, 
does  not  plunge  into  the  earth  at  once  as  most  people  suppose. 
So  at  least  Dr.  Aikin  informs  us,  for  I  did  not  look  into  the  mat- 
ter myself.  He  says  it  loses  itself  in  the  ground  at  various 
points  about  the  neighborhood,  and  rises  again  on  the  road  to 
Leatherhead.  I  protest  against  its  being  called  "  sullen,"  in 
spite  of  what  the  poets  have  been  .pleased  to  call  it  for  hiding 
itself.  It  is  a  good  and  gentle  stream,  flowing  through  luxuriant 
banks,  and  clear  enough  where  the  soil  is  gravelly.  It  hides, 
just  as  the  nymph  might  hide  ;  and  Drayton  gives  it  a  good 
character,  if  [  remember.  Unfortunately  I  have  him  not  by  me. 
The  town  of  Dorking  disappointed  us,  especially  one  of  us, 
who  was  a  good  deal  there  when  a  child,  and  who  found  new 
London-looking  houses  started  up  in' the  place  of  old  friends. 
The  people  also  appeared  not  so  pleasant  as  their  countrymen  in 
general,  nor  so  healthy.  There  are  more  King's  and  Duke's 
Heads  in  the  neighborhood  ;  signs,  which  doubtless  came  in  with 
the  Restoration.  The  Leg  of  Mutton  is  the  favorite  hieroglyphic 
about  the  Downs.  Dorking  is  famous  for  a  breed  of  fowls  with 
six  toes.  I  do  not  know  whether  they  have  any  faculty  at 
counting  their  grain.  We  did  not  see  Leith  Hill,  which  is  the 
great  station  for  a  prospect  hereabouts,  and  upon  which  Dennis 
the  critic  made  a  lumbering  attempt  to  be  lively.  You  may  see 
it  in  the  two  volumes  of  letters  belonging  to  N.  He  "  blunders 
round  about  a  meaning,"  and  endeavors  to  act  the  part  of  an 
inspired  Cicerone,  with  oratorical  "  flashes  in  the  pan."  One  or 
two  of  his  attempts  to  convey  a  particular  impression  are  very 
ludicrous.  Just  as  you  think  you  are  going  to  catch  an  idea, 
they  slide  off  into  hopeless  generality.  Such  at  least  is  my  im- 
pression from  what  I  remember.     I  regret  that  I  could  not  meet 


CHAP.  XIV.]  A  WALK  FROM  DULWICH  TO  BROCKHAM.  257 

at  Epsom  or  Leatherhead  with  a  Dorking  Guide,  which  has  been 
lately  published,  and  which,  1  believe,  is  a  work  of  merit.  In 
the  town  itself  I  had  not  time  to  think  of  it ;  otherwise  I  might 
have  had  some  better  information  to  give  you  regarding  spots  in 
the  neighborhood,  and  persons  who  have  added  to  their  interest. 

One  of  ihese,  however,  I  know.  Turning  off  to  the  left  for 
Brockham,  we  had  to  go  through  Betchworth  Park,  formerly  the 
seat  of  Abraham  Tucker,  one  of  the  most  amiable  and  truth- 
loving  of  philosophers.  Mr.  Hazlitt  made  an  abridgment  of  his 
principal  work ;  but  original  and  abridgment  are  both  out  of 
print.  The  latter,  I  should  think,  would  sell  now,  when  the 
public  begin  to  be  tired  of  the  eternal  jangling  and  insincerity  of 
criticism,  and  would  fain  hear  what  an  honest  observer  has  to 
say.  It  would  only  require  to  be  well  advertised,  not  puffed  ; 
for  puffing,  thank  God,  besides  being  a  very  unfit  announcer  of 
truth,  has  well-nigh  cracked  its  cheeks. 

Betchworth  Castle  is  now  in  the  possession  of  Ar.  Barclay  the 
brewer,  a  descendant,  if  I  mistake  not,  of  the  famous  Barclay  of 
Urie,  the  Apologist  of  the  Quakers.  If  this  gentleman  is  the 
same  as  the  one  mentioned  in  boswell's  Life  of  Johnson,  he  is  by 
nature  as  well  as  descent  worthy  of  occupying  the  abode  of  a 
wise  man.  Or  if  he  is  not,  why  shouldn't  he  be  worthy  after  his 
fashion  ?  You  remember  the  urbane  old  book-worm,  who,  con- 
versing with  a  young  gentleman,  more  remarkable  for  gentility 
than  beauty,  and  understanding  for  the  first  time  that  he  had 
sisters,  said,  in  a  transport  of  the  gratuitous,  "  Doubtless  very 
charming  young  ladies,  sir."  I  will  not  take  it  for  granted  that 
all  the  Barclays  are  philosophers;  but  something  of  a  superiority 
to  the  vulgar,  either  in  talents  or  the  love  of  them,  may  be  more 
reasonably  expected  in  this  kind  of  hereditary  rank  than  the 
common  one. 

With  Mr.  Tucker  and  his  chestnut  groves  I  will  conclude, 
having,  in  fact,  nothing  to  say  of  Brockham,  except  that  it  was 
the  boundary  of  our  walk.  Yes  ;  I  have  one  thing,  and  a  plea- 
sant one  ;  which  is,  that  I  met  there  by  chance,  with  the  younger 
brother  of  a  family  whom  I  had  known  in  my  childhood,  and 
who  are  eminent  to  this  day  for  a  certain  mixture  of  religion  and 
joviality,  equally  uncommon  and  good-hearted.     May  old  and 


258  THE  COMPANION.  [chap,  s 

young  continue  hot  to  know  which  shall  live  the  longest.     I  *d 
not  mean  religion  or  joviality  !  but  both  in  their  shape. 

Believe  me,  dear  sir,  very  truly  yours. — Mine  is  not  so  novel 
or  luxurious  a  journey  as  the  one  you  treated  us  with  the  other 
day  :*  which  I  mention,  because  one  journey  always  makes  me 
long  for  another  ;  and  I  hope  not  many  years  will  pass  over 
your  h'ead  before  you  give  us  a  second  Ramble,  in  which  I  may 
see  Italy  once  again,  and  hear  with  more  accomplished  ears  the 
sound  of  her  music. 

•  See  "  A  Ramble  among  the  Musicians  in  Germany,"  a  work  full  of  gusto. 


TEE   END. 


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